by Frank Sherlock
The afterlife of being
created is not the same as done
World’s on fire so wombats
let the distressed inside for shelter Grieving
disappearances comes w/ an outlaw dare
to negotiate mourning & a libidinal
need to go on We plotted aberrations
the way couples planned meals
filling trenchant mouths & feeding eyes w/mischief
Then all of a sudden there were no words
Yes there are & they smell Beneath fascism’s stank
the scent of defiant joy draws us
together as animals to become another creature
This is what living
inside an organism looks like Embryology
textbooks call this phenomenon love
FRANK SHERLOCK lives in Philadelphia.