suicide

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Altar

Published October 4, 2017 by April Fox

Let’s make a little altar here

from the things that we collected

while we walked.

Let’s make a little altar

from the broken sticks,

the colored leaves, the tiny

stones

that pressed between our palms

like everything.

Let’s make a little altar

from the love notes

and the bits of songs

the promises and tears

the handprints on the glass

in the back seat of the car.

Let’s make a little altar

with the shadowbox we made

from torn up paper, old receipts

the endless coffee cups,

the rain.

Let’s make a little altar

from the nursery rhymes and fairy tales

the hangovers and lazy days

the emptiness behind the

captive audience, the rapt and

awed, the onlookers, the fans

the stick figures, the empty heads

the arms that circled close, the

time

the blackness left behind.

Let’s make a little altar, but this time

let’s keep it out

where we can see it

keep the floodlights on

the spotlight keeping lit

all the things that we’ve collected

tucked away

and dusted off

on a holiday like nothing

Let’s make a little altar

from the darkness

left behind.

Stench

Published December 5, 2014 by April Fox

Early morning, waking alone
in the cluttered nest you built
the stench of last year’s sheets and last night’s
desperation turn your stomach and the water
on the bedside stand is gone, the glass left empty
by the stranger who crept over you
shameful in your flaccid state
saliva like a spider’s web, linking you
to the soggy condom
by the pillow

There is a book you thought you’d want to read
someday
lying on the floor
dressed in dust and the fragile carcass
of an insect
starved for air

The sunlight through the broken blinds sings lies
of better things

You dreamed of childish things,
rope swings and secret hidden cans
of cheap domestic beer, Fantasia
on the TV screen

When they found you, you were hanging
like some morbid decoration
strung up in celebration
of the world you left behind
and the skin dripped off their faces
open mouths and burnt out eyes, imaginary
indignation, all
erased with your existence.

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