Frank
A poem.
The fish and meat market section swallows the cemetery.
The smell of all sorts of carcasses
and invertebrates struggling to breathe.
— I like to think I’d kill for you.
But I know it’d have to be some form of accident.
The ice and iceberg laid to aid the animal’s rest aren’t enough to suffocate the smell. And neither do the confusing voices of the shoppers.
— I’ve created a life full of cortisol lowering music,
qi gong,
and observing you like a prey.
Rewriting purple days like the art of war
as you type away on the poetics of spaces, as you collect your Pokémon cards.
Then you bounce, and I’m left gaping and gasping.
I say goodbye to you for the weekend now.
Waving in the wind like Naples, 1958.
My fleshy arms around your sturdy neck, to lose you now, to the discordance of chatter and pork trotters.
