Morbid Little Thing
by Lydia Williams
As a child,
I used to see stalks of white lilies,
unscented candles,
glossy, polished pews under a hidden organ.
My own death would be an affair,
an admiration of opulent ends
Now,
I find my corpse
akin to a crow
Altered
and barely recognizable as such.
Feathers ripped to shreds
and scattered along the curb
insides ground
into the grooves
of the street.
One with the road.
Where there was once a woman
standing over me,
bending
to chill her lips
with a kiss on my forehead
Now there is a mutt
burying
its nose in the mound of my mangled flesh and fractured bones
Its neck
Pulled
by
its master
away from the mess
Soft sobs
and dried tears
turn to gasps of
horror
or
pity
The end of my life shoves itself to me
constantly
but its stench shifts just as much.