Paula Ethans
I KEEP MAKING COFFINS OUT OF MEN
I keep making coffins
out of men.
Close my eyes
halfway.
Lay atop the coarse fuzz
that leaves
almost-rug burn.
Turn apathetic to breath.
The funeral is for the forgetters
not the forgotten.
So he feasts on me
but swears he’ll leave
the good parts.
Just a bit, he pleads. But
he feels my neck
with both hands, wraps his
masculinity
around me until
he wants.
I keep finding coffins
in men.
And I can’t decide
if that says more about
the coffins
or the men.
The invitation
I admit
is tempting.
Tickle me
with your brush
Mr. Coroner
make me blush.
Men keeping making a coffin
out of me.
I try to tell my mom
when she sees me wearing
my favourite dress;
an expressionless face;
that night’s stench; and
a wood heavy enough to mask
the howls of the hollowness.
She whispers
we love you.
I would choke on her words
if I had the air.