Patrick Whitfill Frankenstein Flips through a Hollister Catalogue
Such pretty little monsters. How every node's
invisible, cute as buttonholes, shows
the tactful-yet-nauseously-super sense of pride
your maker glitters creations with. But I know
the shine of you is borrowed, smacks of gin,
dementia, the hollowness inside a crow.
You're the mannequin's implausible carrion,
and you'll come to know the ink in each
next pulse is barter. When you trace your skin,
you'll feel the stitch of what holds the handsome torch
of someone else's heart inside your chest.
With every breath you steal, you'll try to teach
your body how to cave again. The rest's
as simple as a pine box: once you sweat through
the armpit of your second life, all blessings tossed
aside; when flesh is maggoty, thick as stew
congealed, what rots right away when most
of you is buried, burned or both, is you.
So close your eyes. And when mobs of the moist
soil halos down, wait until the skein
of shushing vultures circles for their taste.
That means you're free to try and die again.