Corpse of Recluse Found a Year After Her Death

There is no recluse like a corpse. We all
are bound for the sublime isolation

of our own company, the kitchen in chaos, 
no time to tidy up. Shadow and Bubba 

dissolve at our feet, a geometry of bones 
spelling out the last letter home. I can’t 

close my eyes or stop grinning. It doesn’t
matter. The cop walks slow, kneels

beside me, leather of his belt and holster 
creaking, both knees. Eyes like coins, 

face full of dread and awe, he must think 
that I’m a god.

Next - Ruth Daigon

Contents - Reader

Contributors
Current Issue - Blue Fifth Reader
Home

---

---