Eastside Incident

I pricked a boil
On her leg
Then went to bed,
Slept royal.

Woke early next morn.
Made French Toast.
Ate hers, too.
She musta been worn.

I shook her massive arms
So violently
I heard a dirge
Escape her bracelet’s charms.

On the fourth day
I lay prostrate
In front of the Lord:
My prayers began to decay.

Five days in our bed
And not a single stir
From my lover:
I knew she was dead.

Take good care of her
Mr. Coroner.
See that she’s buried
In her red fox fur.


* * * * *


It was not neglect, was it?
Nor idiocy, or a simple naïveté?

It was out of revulsion you kept her
To yourself, silent, for six days.

The frozen depths of her arctic skin
Burned you. And yes, you were hot

To kiss those blue lips,
Taste the smile of her rot.


* * * * *

The sheets are still soiled
With her last perfume,
Two weeks after the wake.

There are dead wreaths
In the living room,
Sympathy cards on the TV.

Nothing can break him
Of his blue funk, his gloom.
His thoughts revolve around

His wife in her tomb,
The tool shed, and the bones
About to be exhumed.

--Boris Victor Stecko