I Hold the Hand of a Dead Girl
I am tired.
My soles are worn smooth
parallel to the rutted road.
I move through every crevasse, each memorized,
while my arm extends into a paler one.
It belongs to a familiar small nose
and big cheeks and long legs and thin hips.
I drag her behind me
her feet hanging limply to her left.
Heels under layers of frayed bandages
seed violent veins that cling to the backs of her legs.
made of asphalt and gravel,
old cloth and calluses
peels off in supple white heaps
as it snags a glitch in the floor.
My fingers leave dents in her soft palm.
My steps have gotten more and more cautious
careful I don't tread on her loose red hair.
There is a cove of memories
visions and ideas
that lie beneath her sunken eyes.
Blue lips whisper "Its alright"
under a tuft of dusty breath.
And I drag her with me.