Natalie

Tell me what to do with all
this wanting. The bric-a-brac,
the dark hurdy-gurdy. I collect
what I can of the dead. Blood
in the pencil jar. In the shampoo,
the conditioner, the crock pot.
It's hard to tell what's real
and what’s not. The abandoned silo
where they found three bodies.
How we grope each other beneath
the wooden staves. My locket
stuffed with your pale, tiny hairs.
That time I dropped like a doll
in the embalming room. Grandma
claims I’m too skinny, gorges me
on Mars Bars and banana cream pie.
My hands, my lifeless eyes, place
them in a fishing box, a gilded
purse. The neighbors no longer
prone to visiting. They fear
that crouched, wet panting
under the stairwell.
The spectral head of Phil Collins
suspended over my bed.
Every piece of landscape
a grim story.