Waiting for the Dead to Return

In the morning, half asleep,

you kissed my cheek and whispered,

That’s the price of security,

and I didn’t understand until we stood

in the grocery store and I saw the produce aisle

but you called it vore –

this sexualization of self-consumption.

The starving artist isn’t thin enough

if they aren’t scooping their soul

into paper cones; if we megaphoned this suffering

would more than sufferers listen?

This love of art is suicidal, and this love of artist is worse –

this willing ruin of wanting to live

on the finite, this wishing the body

a resource instead of a crumbling home. 

”Waiting for the Dead to Return” is a poem that I wrote in 2019. It was published in Bleached Butterfly, which you can read online.