Flowers pull from mouth, tongue to tulip,
back of head thrust back:
there is no empathy tool fashioned
to rub a tell from your tummy.
The peat shovel slides right down
through your leathered arms held
horizontal to your sunken standing.
More peat cubes to burn stack
by trucks fueled behind homes.
A pink stick exclaims your site.
Disarmed body extracted
with brushes and tiny steel tools.
Your mane gathered tightly to a ponytail.
Not now, but then, what you did.
Your orange throat is still if
pursed open. The frayed skin discloses
a stone blade’s degree of serration.
Eyelids wrinkled in what and shut
puddles of dark matter. They
contrast with your glamorous eyebrows,
their delicate liquid swirl intact
unlike your thighs, torn loose to bone.
Your oblonged skull bears
your whole face free to now
travel down this then that fast route.
Not in your now, to stop at a rest stop.
Not in your now but then we shall face you,
a we that wills not us.