by | Dec 30, 2014 | Poetry

We do the research. We hear the quiet, see the heart slow, vanish. For a while, we are made of words, of embryo, of viable, of wait and see. I am grief. I am double and half. I carry the dead body, which is better than no body. I can be a coffin. That easy. I want to push back the waters, the wave of blood staining the sofa. It floods out. That easy, like someone pulling a cord. Like opening the blinds. Easy. The clots, the bags of blood and tissue. It goes fast, too fast to brace. Too fast to hold. Too fast to find a face. Everywhere, wet. That easy. Hollow now. Pounding at my chest, grasping at my ribs. Rocking, prying. Open this container: Take, I am saying, then, take it all.

Photo By: Gzooh

About The Author

Callista Buchen

Callista Buchen’s work has appeared Gargoyle, Gigantic, Bellevue Review, DIAGRAM and others, with reviews published in Mid-American Review, The Literary Review, The Collagist, and Prick of the Spindle. She is the poetry editor for Beecher’s.