Word Sculptures

Haunted

A dark poem using stolen words

Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash

Under the next streetlight in every direction a face — just red raw meat stitched together with thread scars swollen black watching fingers open close — close into the dim streetlight

Down the next stretch of road standing outside the circle the shadows wait

her hand reaches in — a normal hand — a belted waist we look at our watches the edges of her mouth shut to talk

into the pink plastic down on the floor you lean forward roll forward and back the wheel some pink leotards a home pregnancy test

walking down the aisle with every step the other making her hips look thin the fashion model waddle

Miss America smeared shared — I — am NOT fat

We had left some kind of memo In the red spray paint telling them FUCK THAT YOU FIND A CURE

The matchmaker left so his wife wouldn’t miss it he wrote: This summer you could by bus…

She stops a moment wondering one-two-three months still

around the next corner under the streetlight on the curb dark henna vines and a bell tinkling around her neck mother nature brings dressing smelling of pine needles — of basil and sandalwood wrapped to protect and air condition our warm room

So we’ve been told