The room lies dormant, uninhabited.
The frame of a bed in pieces on the hard wood floor, curtains
removed, let peering eyes in during
daylight to see the tissue box
on a bench, the bags of watches
and lip balms piled in a basket.
The television weighted by a layer
of dust. The smell of insecticide
lingers in the air, in the closet.
My toes are soundless against the night
as I break the quarantine, rest my
fatigued body on the cold floor,
look out into a black sky and find
constellations, close my eyes
and remember what was shared and lost here.
 |
| "Footbridge" by Olivia Kefauver |
Everyone needs closure, even the dead
Who would even think to look for me
here? My flesh has fed the crows and the other scavengers that search
these dirt paths for food. At least
my body was good for one last thing.
My outline is firmly embedded in the
earth now, the Spring sun bleaching
my bones. I didn't want to die in
sweat pants but at least they had the
decency to not leave them around my
ankles afterwards. It was quick, you
should know that. They had a gun.
They took what they needed from me,
my bike, my cell phone. They left me
with a few minutes of shame before
they snuffed the light. I didn't hurt
for very long. Turn right at the giant
boulder and follow the grassy path
with the rotted foot bridge. I'm
sleeping under that oak tree a few
feet from the water. Please take care
of my dog. She won't understand.
Raina Masters writes poems, occasionally shares them and is
hoping to submit more in the future. Raina spends most of her time daydreaming
about faraway places and loves music, the quiet of a walk in cold weather and
the happiness a warm blanket provides. Some of her work has appeared in Drown
In My Own Fears, Thick With Conviction and Work to a Calm.
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