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.