98

I lie in a field of ivy, weary,
thoughts drifting with the circling crows.
Things are easier this way. 
Not like the shovel 
removing the snake’s head, 
or my broken wrists in autumn.
More metal in the ear could fix me, 
or perhaps a river of ink. 
Most efforts are in vain.
Screws jammed through my bones 
or thread pulling flesh 
like a refurbished doll could 
not stop my corrosion. 
Do we glue the dead leaves 
to the winter tree and 
pretend they never died?

Raeya Wilhelm

Refurbished Doll