by Brian Clifton
We burned her letter in a pile
of dried grape leaves
Its smoke a dark wet shock
across the sky’s
choking face
She dragged
her dead self down
the sidewalk
by her hair
proving the dead
aren’t too lazy
to move by themselves
*
That night
our neighbor stood on his porch
and watched us
We wobbled down the iced-over hill
He floated across the street
He pinned her to a tree
and parted her
hair
We all saw
how his fingernails glowed
like each phase of the moon
*
Later in bed a body
presses itself
into me
all paws and curled spine
She never came back
from her last bath
In the bathroom
among soap scum
and shed skin
our neighbor
opened his jaw
and let the tub
drain down his throat
***
Brian Clifton lives in Kansas City Missouri. He co-edits Bear Review. His work can be found in: The Laurel Review, CutBank, The Pinch, Southeast Review, Pleiades, and other such magazines.