In the aftermath of
Sometimes in the middle of the night,
very quietly I hear her say
and I could swear these rooms bleed of her.
She is wrapped in my pink blanket
and strewn across the sofa, unconscious
her toes pointing up like a compass that reads NORTH.
She is clacking a knife down over and over in the kitchen
making the flesh of an apple wider and wider,
with unnerving, spastic movements.
Her eyes like day old black coffee fermenting.
In the bedroom corner, faced away from the window
where she tore flesh to rip out
pieces that poisoned her.
Carpet fibers still holding fragments of her.
There is no heaven and hell,
so I'm staying with you, she warns.
The church bells in the distance ring death,
ring me awake.
Chase you away, for now.
Taylor Copeland is the editor of the online poetry zine Decompression. She is currently splitting time between studies and a job she isn't terribly thrilled with. She gets lost driving quite often, is unashamed of loving the color pink and thinks too much.
back to issue 10
take me home