My Little Sister and the Obituary Page
Lafayette Wattles
I find her curled
among the words
like a mourning S,
as if each separate letter
found there
contains a life
or maybe, linked,
theyre like some bone-yard
fence—cold black iron,
staggering through snow—
or the artless
finger-tracings of a child
in ash
spelling death.
For some reason,
shes captive
to that page
as if it were a tomb
of broken lashes
surrendered with tears.
But thats the way
she is, riddled
with self-inflicted wounds—
as if her heart had been
impaled
by the spearish l she fell upon
in the line
. . . died at home alone.
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