Death’s Dip
of Confession of a Mattress
by Shannon P. Laws
FREE mattress. A queen
size pillow top
Took it home, laid it
in the frame
First night—I rolled
into a dip
a body shaped dip
on the left side
A person taller than
me, wider than me
created a dip that I
roll into
a bedridden, sickly
person
left a death dip
No problem, I think, I’ll
just sleep on the right
every night to even things out
Yet, every morning I
wake in the dip
My bed, now a
metaphorical display
divides my psyche down
the middle
The dip is comfortable,
soft, form fitting
It feels like a hug in
my lonely bed.
It is as comfortable as
my father’s depression,
a heavy-known feeling
of failure,
like a person reluctant
to leave their bed
Successful people are
not children
Few people achieve
success
Those that do are vain
and far from God
My familiar spins
tires, set on park.
This I confess to you:
I sleep with death
—and I like it
Skin Suit Sewn Too Tightly
By Shannon Laws
As a doctor sucks
poison from a bite
the red rock of
Bisbee calls out ghosts
The dead come back to
walk again
Reincarnation of
secondhand spirits
as secondhand
furniture
The dresser is painted now
The couch new cloth
The set of chairs split apart
The headboard used for vines
In your years of
living
the painting under the painting
a past covered over and
over
with false stories of
forgotten moments
Moments made to fill the gap of time
the hungry use between reading
the menu—ordering the meal
Fat of the present
melts off
dead blood returns moisture
to the air, dries
your muscles tight
Tight as new couch fabric
White as the dresser
Your sets of ribs pull apart
Your head a plot of vines
Leaf Tattoo
by Shannon P.
Laws
You
can you feel it
in
my city
the
change of air
as
wind folds in
fall’s
weather.
Orange
leaves appear on
the
sidewalks of Holly Street.
No
worms to dance them back to soil.
Cement
laden, laid on
the
roadside in random patterns
leave
a tattoo, imprinted on the stone.
Five
pointed stars tree hand
pressed
by feet and rain
bleed
orange ink for all to see.
By
winter the marks wash away
By
spring, bright green babies wave
at
us from their mother’s arm
born back into our memory.
Thank you Koon for this opportunity. I enjoy your publication.
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