at three I’d creep beneath
our glass-top coffee table
dressed as snow white
fold fleshy hands
hold the supine pose
as postmortem pining
for some impish love
I have always known grief
becomes structure
if arranged carefully
enough
dolly funerals / pet burials
interring my odd body
in the sick sweet spice
of clay-brown leaves
their weight a made bed
I laid there suspended
until they ceased rustling
my grandma died I carried
her lip stain around despite
its stale cigarette scent
left ash clung to yellowed cap
wore the nauseous pink til it flaked
then swallowed what stuck
to my teeth
every body makes
me think of her
some cool & firm as
halved pears
others big bruised up
peaches split in sun
insides spilt & shimmering
so yes I smell
like hell & yes
this feeds me
alerted by daily grotesqueries
I huff my kitten’s skin w /
greed implying nearer doom
her morning musk my daily bread
wake at midnight still so
dried by formaldehyde
gasp at faucet to slake
some ghastly thirst
pet grief weaves through my ankles
leaps up to lap the gush
her purr / my pulse louder than
lub dup of embalming machine
mundane love stowed
like prayer cards in pockets
~~
Emily Murman is a poet & mortician. She holds an MFA in poetry & is the author of "I want your emergency" (Selcouth Station Press) and "all the light in here" (Ghost City Press). Emily lives in Chicago with her husband & two sphynx cats. She can be found on Instagram @emilymurman.
