She has recently returned from the dead.
Thankfully, her skin didn’t have time to rot
and her bones are still quite capable
of holding her flesh together.
Intestines in working order…check.
Lungs… yes even the lungs
are inhaling, exhaling perfectly.
She’s not even coughing up dirt.
It’s a miracle.
No, not really-
More likely three a,m. on Sunday morning,
a mother’s vigil ended long before
in a deep couch sleep,
a father threatening to smash the guy’s face in
before he too succumbed to the call of weariness.
She’s back from the deadly car crash.
She’s awoken out of that drunken stupor.
Not even the rape and murder
has her looking blankly up at daisy roots
or crying out to the weevils,
“Come and get it!”
She’s tired and crawls into bed
without taking her clothes off.
Next morning, three corpses
swallow cornflakes, sip coffee,.
give life one more try.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Slant, Southern California
Review and Skidrow Penthouse, with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge and Soundings East.