By Gemma Green
a soft, prudent kill
at the end of hardened limbs
one pill, two pill
excavating eternal bondage
a churning of 200 small mistakes
the grinding of one thousand small mountains
into the dust of a fervent bolting
a delicate “what if?” on the lips of a reckless wreck
flourishing in a glowing pool of acid
pleading with her bedside
hurling into mother’s room
screeching sorrowful dependency
beleaguered steps turn into gallant strides towards the car
only to the car, the car, the car, please just get me to the car
pausing at the lawn, flooding the first visible patch of green with a tangible past life
i spoke to the spiders who convinced me i wasn’t worth the upheaval
a marionette of shame
i reclaim my phantom limb, i speak to only her now
we collude in a dream, i meet the pavement with absolution