By
Holly Day
Soft Tissue
The mummy comes to my door, tells me
he’s moved in down the street, only now realized
we were neighbors, we should go out for coffee
sometime, we should catch up. Startled, not expecting
this shambling wreck of my past to just show up
on my doorstep as though nothing had ever
happened between us, I just nod my head
say that would be nice.
I shut the door and my daughter asks
who I was talking to, asks why
I look so funny, so strange. I say nothing
can’t find the words to explain that sometimes
the dead can crawl their way out through layers of dirt
breathe life back into their rotting limbs and
stop by for a visit, without any sort of warning,
no polite warning at all.
Reflecting on the Night
he took her to the Parthenon he
laid her down among the headless trunks of women dead
2000 years or more, he held her down
until her watch stopped
and her breathing stopped and her fingers stopped
rooting and wriggling among the stones
her blue ’82 Porsche abandoned
just another relic in a place
filled with holes
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