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dear Meleager MAG
August 19, 2015
you told me the underworld smells
of petrichor and rotted squash,
torn apart by scrabbling hands and scattered across the ground,
broken.
you told me your eyes are hollow now and glassy like burnt-out hot lamps
(the fries go stale on the counter top)
and nights you float on your back in the river
because your vulnerability is not in your heel but all, all over
you told me you feel like you’re dying again
when the water seeps into the cuts
on your arms
and Meleager, I love you, I love you,
but I don’t believe that fire killed you.
© Michelle W., Ada, MI
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