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.