Red in My Ledger
I lay lifeless on a beaten old loveseat,
exuding an achroous mist from my lungs,
cigarette in hand,
replaying it like a worn out video tape
on the portable television
that is my memory.
The picture’s fuzzy,
but I could’ve wrote the damn thing.
I recite it line for line, present yet unmoving,
unable to suggest a new direction.
An adactylous observer. A perpetual voyeur.
I could have done the right thing.
Ammut, when you take it,
savour my heart.
Its known trouble. Its still tender.
Serve in a red wine sauce.
That’s how she would have liked it.