Obituaries


Obituaries

by MELISSA COOK

I have written about loss like
my body is tomb for cupid arrows
plucked from my ancestors.
Small-scripted obituaries of
every lover onto my skin

erased and
repeated.

My body is a mausoleum,
designed by a musician and
redesigned by an artist,

and if you asked one to describe
me he’d say I was the scent
of aging metal on his ring finger
and the numerals on his bones.

And I often wonder how he felt
when he made the music I write to,

when did he begin his grieving?
why were his instrumentals about me?
I know a lot of women would find that
romantic, but he, he used his titles
as a branding,

Why did I barter hips for love?
When did he know the “time had
passed for us”?

When did I start asking so many
questions?

Probably when my poetry began to
reflect his dishonesty. He knew I
would find absence in his
creativity.

The last time I saw you, you
fed me at the airport, and I told you it
was the last time you would see me.

That was
two and a half years ago.

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