The Body In The Dumpster

A poem

© kevin-butz-FvFuMYVbhzE-unsplash

needs to be mourned.

It no longer dreams of how it loved

to laugh, the silk-supple touch

of fingers on its skin in the early morning, the taste

of ripe fruit in summer. Now, it is forced

to sprawl so with its loosened limbs among the empty boxes

and paper, the plastic bags and broken toys, with its swollen eyes

shut tightly and its fingers curled

around vegetable peelings. It has learned when beaten to stop

breathing and to wear the trenchcoat of death like a detective.