Emily Dolan
There’s a carcass on the floor, fur slicked back with blood
and eyes rolled back, the whites like cracking eggshells,
body bent and neck cocked in angles only meant for jigsaws
mangled form that’s outlived its duty — skin turned moth-licked curtains,
tendons tight like rubber bands stretched on children’s wrists, and
organs ripped like birthday cards relieved of money’s weight
In the red of breast exposed, something’s staring back —
angel, devil, it doesn’t really matter —
With teeth that chew the flesh like gum balls, its voice
the sound of buzzing flies; a caterpillar — dimpled yellow, striped in black,
legs like chubby child’s fingers — nibbles as it walks, unapologetic;
the time for eulogies, it seems, has passed — or never really was;
rain is not
the tears of mourning
suns find anger
useless, trite —
winds are vagabonds, never staying
long enough to grow
attached to anything
There’s a carcass on the floor, and as I stare, you come to mind—
our joined hands left rotting in the sticky earth,
ripped apart like any other dead thing —
the rot still lingers in my nose
***
Emily Dolan is a 25 year old poet currently living in Sevilla, Spain. After completing her biology degree in 2016, she moved to Europe in pursuit of a professional soccer career. She has prior poetry and fiction publications in the Mangrove Review, and has publications forthcoming in CircleShow and Inklette.