late summer sun no longer paints
her slender, sloping shoulders. it has been replaced
with a fluorescent bulb. the flowers,
too, are plastic cloth in plastic grass. coffee is
mostly tap water. music is the same as
coughing. sleep is a
drug, an opiate with withdrawal
symptoms. would one addiction should
kill the other. survival is something
to pass the time. time is viscous
sour honey filled with flies. she is
caught in the amber, half-alive.
to live and yet have died already
is the strangest kind of hell, dull,
fuzzy in all its edges.
all jokes are famous tragedies
in drag. even corpses wear makeup,
make-believing themselves alive.
by Anna Winham