There But For the Grace of God, Go I
Tulip petals budding from her laced cuffs, make-up on a waxed face heavy, head low— an emerald dress drapes enviously on faulty perfect skin. her locket turns on chain-link thread, frame & glass brittle and black by the smokestack’s exhaust. never wanting to see the sepia photo inside, last Chances to see façades yellowed— lips absent—platinum sunrises through scratched skylights embroider arachnids into corneas. Spider steps trace steps on linen—whispers from the tranquil thumps of the flowers on floorboards. I lace my fibrous tendons through the grommets of her dress— held together by thumbprints traveling on grease trails. crystalline satin folds ripple, stalactites falling through porous, tender scalps.
