Handmaidens and Coffin Flies
The child is dead in the trunk of the car,
it is not symbolism, it is real life;

she has become a princess in the
blackness of her death; brain
rotting inside the plastic bag – the last
liquids of her flesh spilling across
the field slightly separate from the road -

coffin flies as her handmaids,
adorn her in your splendor,
dares you to take your eyes off
the unscripted lyricism of her presence;
touch what is left of
the skin on her face.

The child was dead
in the trunk of the car
with a trash bag wrapped
around her bones; bones
become bramble; braids
become roses;

the dead are an obsession
we cater ourselves for -

she will not come into the house
again, but sits in the car trunk
with maggots as rings; duck tape
lipstick; the summer heat as gown -

she is left there, heiress
to the storm; mermaid submerged
in the pet cemetery when the rains
strike from the gulf while the wild things
part the plastic of her coffin and scatter
what is left of her.

She was in the trunk of the car
when she died; it is not poetry,
it's reality.