Lot’s wife looked back
and I get it –
nothing more human
than to study the carnage
in search of some meaning,
wisdom whispered, gold thread
pulled from the wound
of the broken hem, I
wonder whether she felt
the bone giving way to salt.
We sank those bodies
beneath the blue curtain
of some night, drowned the
young lovers and walked
our separate ways, wearing
headphones, but I still
dredge that pond, indignant
over bruising on the
heart tissue, left by some man
who confessed on a
dance floor, everybody can
see your heart for miles.
Calendar pages fell
from a nail in the wall, littered
bodies in a shallow grave, I
suppose I should kick the habit
of picking my scars apart, no
pearls from the old beds, only
bad actors at the dress rehearsal,
still I wander, cat to the
furnace, in the hope
he doesn’t catch fire
this time around.
