| thick with conviction a poetry journal |
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James H. Duncan You may have noticed
that you are not in my Death letter; I wrote it in the flush of another anxiety attack that shut down my entire nervous system, my heart, my eyes and balance, and all I could do was work my fingers like ten dead mules in the desert, and line by line I laid it all out: don’t run my body through a wake don’t bury me in a box like the others don’t mourn or wail or even whisper just put me in the ground as is, somewhere where the worms can do their work, where tree roots can sift through, where the rain can seep down and wash my bones, and leave my words to the bearded man, and leave my love to the blonde, leave my picture on the bedside stand, and cast my memory away like a penny from a pocket, as clean as the day you dropped it down the drain
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Current Issue:
Russ Brickey
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