Little funerals full of
tiny mourners,
these hours. Wondering
if it’s worth it
to rob every grave, to
drag the days back
to the laboratory, to
stitch them
into something only
lightning can love.
Will they mistake my
creature for my name?
It will do neither of us
any good.
All these years are only
alive because
we
belong dead. The
spirit of the times:
pity mixed with horror.
Torches, pitchforks.
We have pulled back the
veil to reveal
darkness, & we sit
in that dark, revealed.
The man who makes a
monster makes the man
who makes a monster. Who
makes a man.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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