Casey Gilfillan

Walking and aching, I drag this corpse of
Memory, this console of flesh to which
I assign no purpose. What a waste, to
Resign it complacent and confine it
To ignorance not with intent but harm.

It breathes but does not know another, it
Thinks but sinks deeper into the wet clay
Of time that cakes and cracks and consumes.
From an agent of neglect with a thirst for the
Scratch and burn, the lacerations are a gift.

Wrapped and topped with a delicious
Red bow, they are delectable and grotesque.