EulogyJill Alexander Essbaum
She was slattern and ash. Hoarfrost on thorn. Vinegar and hyssop. A hiccough. A fuck-up. No matter. No factly. She was a casual exactly, Habitually plastered. And every havoc that had her Disastered her. She was a cat on a trash Heap. A baby and a trembler. In transit or in trouble, Ever one or the other. She was the warning Your mother tried to woman you About. The dementia You presented with. The misfortune you’ve resented, Since. She was ankle iron, Ironing board. Bored and forlorn, She was horny, sore, and cheap. She dreamed of doors and ceilings. A creamy, skin-deep bything. She was a mouthful of dirty Words, pretty as pain. She was the staple On a centerfolded page. She was a swiftlet nesting In a stew. What she did to you, You let her do. Like the variegated Musk of ambergris, she lingered. Her particular taste On your tongue and your finger. She was linen white. And Rubbish red. And maidenhead. And fantastic in bed. But now she’s dead.
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