Author: M.W
I.
Do you know what Taylor?
I get it.
I need to know if it’s chill
That she’s in my head.
Because I’ve been to this well before
And the water I pulled up
Was not nearly clean.
And in pouring it down the other one’s throat
I drowned them in could have been.
II.
I wonder if I should stop this —
Writing about us.
How many autopsies
Can you carry out
On a three month old
Killed by your own neglect
Before trying to resuscitate it.
As if, were it alive,
You would escape the inferno
of your guilt.
III.
Muggy, nearly suffocating September evenings.
Two dead birds decomposing on the concrete.
“This has come before, it will come again.
And then, surely it will end.”
The tepid bathroom tiles do not answer me.