by Apollo Chastain
Never thought I'd be waiting for my own Death,
who smiles with sharp and circular
teeth. She is sleek, a fish-fed
cat, an angel made of blood.
I've been seeing her more often lately
and all the things she promises me with her rough tongue:
my wrists streaming like wings, wrought-iron rust eating the mattress away
until the lace of my veins whisks around the framework of the bed
jerking the wheel while I'm sprinting at 90
slitting the throat of I57 as I let my body wreck
tired of my excess in emotion
and the strain of surviving
these are the visions my Death is kind enough to give me
whenever I blink.
I can hear her grooming petite paws
all the way between the ferns
a busted cell connection away from anyone
who'd be fool enough to answer my calls
and I hope it will be soon
when she comes traipsing
over the ridge
to make me her vow.