Fetching Islands

Words. Broken egg shells on the back of her tongue. Making their cuts. There. In jests of the taste. Pain tempers the touch. Like we are there. In the cellar. Listening earnest to the vociferous speeches time would give. Swollen limbs searching for torsos. Fingers. Or toes. Any and all pieces. That could begin to make us whole again.

The downstairs. The dungeons of hours. That proved what had found us. Kept tight. In padlocks we called skin. Calm. Like all dying things are. Eager as a countdowns must be. The trial. In repetitious arguments. Angry judges bang the ceilings. There is a way back. It just doesn't remember us.

The bones prepared for dressing and wigs. Confident. Minus the eyes. Plus the tits. Sour girls flaunt their pussies. Meat in drowning pools. Islands fetching oceans. In weak dribbles of piss.

We have to go back. We can't. So we lie. Tell ourselves we already have.

Planting flowers in the dark. The qualms of symmetry. Disrupting my dialogue with the dead. Sealing up those boxes. And setting the alarm. For now.

Trying hard not to be found. Fetching each island on a whim.

No one there.