autopsy.

The mall is America, is
a liminal space, is a graveyard
who has no idea everything
she holds has died, and
the stores soldier on, unawares,
paint chips carving makeshift
geographies over the merchandise,
defaulted promises on the
premises, everything must go,
a pizza shop pretends not to
notice his neighbors have
died and gone, his whistling
echoes long into the empty arcade.

My family dog is an
old man now, I lie on the
carpet beside him, cradling
his face in one hand and
running the other along his
trembling ribcage, I
cannot make him young
so I try to remind him somehow
of his mother.

Inescapable, time, but
lovely is the stillness, if
we let it, if we dare
give it the room, let
it settle over us and
settle our debts and doings,
notice, really notice, the
minutes running their hands
across our tender bodies.