Every woman named Susan.
Every wallet used as bait, every
September dog-eared & barking.
Burying your face in your hands
did not make it.  Burying your
dead in the yard has been
discovered & mourned.  The
way the boy said your body
looked like an apricot.  The
boy.  The cobwebs between
your toes & eyes.  The heart,
the fish  inside the bear’s stomach,

the heart, the kite that was shaped
like your mother’s head.  This is
how it is:  no more ignorance, so
also no more bliss.  The word
absolutely is absolutely dead.  The
way we used to be beautiful has not
only kicked the bucket, but it has
scissored your mother away from
your father.  All disbelief in love
has been Chuck Norrised.  Don’t

expect to see it again.  You lined
the streets with breadcrumbs leading
back to your house.  Pigeons ate your
maps.  Fill your pockets & sockets
with their beaks.  One cicada, two
cicada, three cicada, floor.  The
windows have been stolen, the frogs
double-crossed your brothers & now

you may never leave.  The doors are
missing.  I know a nice archaeologist,
says your grandmother & then she
disappears.  Even the archaeologist
has packed up and left.  The air smells
of gasoline & then suddenly, it is gone,

stabbed in the throat.  You give in to
it eventually as well, we all do.  Your
cut meat flies from its basement freezer.
Your hands are thick with gunfire.  Your
name is the last to give up.  It lays
down in rows next to the others, denies
she belongs to you.

Heather BellAbout Heather: Heather Bell’s work has been published in Rattle, Grasslimb, Barnwood, Poets/Artists,  Red Fez, Ampersand and many others.  She was nominated for the 2009, 2010 and 2011 Pushcart Prize from Rattle and also won the New Letters 2009 Poetry Prize.  Heather has also published four books.  Any more details can be found here.

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