by Chris McCreary
Roll over the dead jester & check the pockets hidden deep in his pleats, then repurpose the leather, convert it into a longer leash. We make do, each a lemon tree steeping our own sweet tea, the happy pig on the butcher’s sign grinning over slices of our own glistening hinds. From these unlike parts comes my jackal heart lost to the pawn shop.
Friends, what if we kissed in the palace after stripping it of copper wiring & Formica? I’m bankrupt but upcycling. I’ve got this patch of land & a blank backdrop before which to await an eighth veil’s parting, a thirteenth month’s turning not found on any calendar.
Chris McCreary is the author of several books and chapbooks, including the chapbook Maris McLamoureary’s Dictionnaire Infernal (Empty Set Press), co-authored with Mark Lamoureux. More recent work appears in Apartment Poetry, Cul-de-sac of Blood, DumDumZine, Heavy Feather Review, Resurrection Magazine, Sortes, Vulnerary, and Works & Days. He lives in South Philadelphia.