And if I die, give my liver to the crazy guy who lived the next house over, He drinks enough he could probably use it. True, he screams, and shoots, and plays the bugle. But he isn’t what they say he is, he isn’t the Devil.
Posed natural to last steel rod through chest, eyes of glass fill sockets —still empty— don’t betray memories of brine in lungs or sutures. People declare their love, never ask where the rest went.