In the throat
of an autopsy,
the business end
of a scalpel
below the sharp
of sterile lighting.
She deserved the sun,
the screaming signs of life
to the tune of nineties hip-hop.
Now she is compost and burlap,
my friend condensed
to a keepsake,
a grief I can touch.
James Roach (they/he) is a queer, trans, sober poet most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? He currently lives in St. Louis.
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