By Anaiah Hervey
I set the stage of my final dream;
mushrooms peak above ground, shy
as if pardoning permission
leaves scrawl the sky like
wretched fingers and harass
the cloud’s soft bellies.
I am no saint, not after this year—
hardly ever have I entered into the chapel
standing on good, moral ground.
I know, I shouldn’t bank on blind acceptance,
but I am human.
I want to catch the nectar drip
from a flower’s organ unfurled, bare.
I want to see, to take that which
does not belong to me:
the succulent meat from a bone,
soft fruit from its rooted mother,
and warm red juice dripping down,
staining exposed cuts and scars.
Nothing I do can assuage
the guilt within, the muted screams
that sound in the dirt before every footstep.
Filthy. Filthy. Filthy—
my corpse befallen would cure nothing.
Though, I lay here, believing myself
right and worthy of a do-over,
as I’m barely alive as an insect
correctly mistaken poison for honey
breathing and stretching, up and
down out of consciousness, buzzing quieter
than a fluorescent bulb in its final light.