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She calls herself
death coach, personal
obstructor to stars and

Iconography from Mexico’s Day of the Dead. Mexicans have one of the best attitudes toward that event and condition.

black holes and
to all that is vain, supercilious,
predictable and strained.

If you’re plugged up
with shame, had enough
of the game, she will
ravage and savage
what’s left of your name.

Death coach lifts freely
from pockets to spend
the loose change you
refuse to deploy that
would remake your
life, so that you might
enjoy all that still can be
yours—if only you hadn’t
hung a name to the cross
of your past that you wear
on your neck, like a stone,
like a fossilized kiss
made of bone.

There are pills to get rid
of her, thrills you can buy
for 12 brain cells per dime,
but there’s no way in Hades
to banish this lady, for she
lives in a hut in the back
of your gut and sooner
than later—doesn’t matter
you hate her—she will knock
at your barque on the night
that your shipment comes in,
and you’re sure you’ll depart
for that tight pair of buns
who is calling you Hon . . .

You’ll want to keep her out
but on the other hand
if you let her in . . .

[to be continued…]

© Elaine Stirling, 2012