Laura Stringfellow
“The illness is in the vodka,”
doors opening palms
to the eyes of strangers, hungry
shadows moving white
across the floor. A sign
above the door flashes
“Maximum Occupancy: 118.”
That place of many openings.
What happens
when the ground is full,
the numbers going backward—
10, 9, 8
—only 118 allowed.
What’s it like
to be one of the chosen.
Right now,
I could be buried
in the flagstone chimney,
horizontal, defying the laws
of physics. I could be buried
in the grassless yard
of dry tan dirt,
flesh dissolving into earth,
a mound of amber bones
splitting into calcite and flint.
***
Laura Stringfellow writes both verse and prose poetry, holds an MFA in Creative Writing, Poetry, and hails from the muggy strangelands of the Southern US. Recent publications have appeared, or are forthcoming, in various journals including Right Hand Pointing, Déraciné, Neologism Poetry Journal, Clementine Unbound, Black Poppy Review, and Thirteen Myna Birds.