I am the awful clerk
of the dimestore shenanigan,
simple rolldown eyelids,
chemical chambers of the absolute.
Broke the dish, yes. Red glass and
I wasn’t sorry. Glued it,
shellacked the damned thing till
it gave in and gleamed. Petted
you in the dark, slow burning,
your wrists must be awful sore
by now. Know that. Not sorry,
not listening to the dog, either.
Or the lights. Never listened
to the lights.
Paid attention to the smell, though.
Always saw the smell, heard it.
Saw it waiting in the corner, bent.
Saw your smell before you left.
Or came. Broke bones, yes, and
wished they could knit back up.
But they are bad sleeves, and blooded.
Sand smells like this, sometimes.
(Previously published in Softblow and Cantaraville)