by D. Dallas
I place my dead around me,
fan their hair out to cover cracks in the floorboards,
salve their oozing nicks and bruises.
my own stiffened heart.
It beats madly now,
beats for the dead - beats out of spite for beating.
I’ll be damned it’s raining
cannot feel the drops.
My dead are soaked… angry
I stay dry and warm (not planned this way
– I only skate by)
can never outrun them.
In the end I lay with them out of pity.
Still my heart won't stop;
the pounding irritates them to no end… I pace around in search of
The fairies in the yard capture my attention.
I step over decaying corpses.
I step out of my own bleeding body.
© 2019 D. Dallas
Donna Dallas studied Creative Writing and Philosophy at NYU’s
and was lucky enough to study under William Packard, founder and editor
of the New York Quarterly. She is recently found or forthcoming in Sick
Lit Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Beautiful Losers, Chiron Review
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