Originally published March
2006 in "Pray For Me"
A rewrite of "Dissection Day"
when she said she was
magic she lied,
and her romance was simply a fable.
she floats in (not heaven) formaldehyde,
cold and grey on the autopsy table.
she opens up to mechanical
not glitter and rainbows and glass.
this fantasy droops and then spoils;
my mind's clear as cyanide gas.
she is no longer miss
she is just a specimen for me to poke
and prod and cut but she does not bleed,
blackened with(out velvet but) smoke.
she was never really
filled with magic;
just a clock whispering tic-toc-tic.