Martha Clarkson: poem
IN CLOSING
I like to think you tape my postcards
to the wall beside the bed.
But to reach the wall
must send knives down your back
from the tumor,
growing big and wet
around your spine.
The Frigidaire across the rented room
must look as reachable as New York by bike.
Why didn't you collect someone years ago
to care for you now?
You have a box of Wheat Thins for this week
and apricots,
rotting on the nightstand.
Martha made a previous appearance in Devil Blossoms #4. Here's hoping she submits again.
Next
