as I walk away from your linoleum tomb
I run my tongue over cracked lips
for the first time
and they are no longer attached but
hanging
like you were and will always be
suspended from cold mental concrete
waiting
for warm hands to pull you down and then
pull you apart
before your body bursts into a thousand crisp autumn leaves
and the wind scoops you up
scatters beautiful bright sun droplets over your veins and facets
and gently lies you down in a black plastic bag
at the curb at dusk
Contributing Writer Emeritus
Medical College of Wisconsin
I am a 27-year-old female Class of 2015 medical student with a history of Anthropology, French, and Religion degrees and a particular predilection for the outdoors who presents with acute poetry syndrome and a burning desire to match in obstetrics and gynecology.
