Don’t Spoil The Martyr’s Son


A botched suicide attempt
And pockets engorged
With loose change, aroma
Of copper purchased
As wholesale-

Identify death as such:
Widening the window
Spreading her legs
And stooping
To hear the echo
Of a
Folded American flag.

I sauntered for the sake of puddles
Waiting in envy
To touch the dry part of my sock,
But she seemed frightened
Of a sober brute
Embracing the Fox Trot
Of rainfall.

“I almost died a few days ago,”
I said.
“Well. Not almost. Either
You’re dead or you’re not.”

She stared off
Glancing at specks;
To be people, or her perfect
Distraction. That’s the allure
Of finding out for yourself.

“Either you’re dead
Or you’re not.”

One thought on “Don’t Spoil The Martyr’s Son

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