White teeth, rosebud mouth, lipstick; nothing hints
that you’ll find my skull this pretty, pulling

me from the shark’s maw. She left red clay prints
on the floor where she threw her soiled clothing,

sashayed about naked. Her elbows propped
under her chin, two bare stick-like legs

displayed wide beneath the table. Her cropped
hair looked fresh. Gunshot wounds, witch burnings, plagues;

all my loves have tales to tell. Dawn obscured
crept in to pool nearby, her ribcage cast

odd blue shadows. Without thinking she poured
a shot of gin, slugged it down, sat aghast

as it dripped down, a dribble and a spurt,
between bones, mixing with the red grave dirt.

][][

notes

I was once told in a dream the manner in which I would die—-drowning at sea and ending up in a shark’s belly. Over the years I’ve found people laugh when I tell them this, which is odd since most people in America die from heart disease, cancer and strokes … all rather terrible and unglamorous ways to go. At least with accidental drowning I’ll be in good company with the likes of Natalie Wood (actress), Percy Bysshe Shelley (slushy, in-bred poet), Dennis Wilson (drug-addled Beach Boy), Virginia Woolf (superstar), Brian Jones (not as super as Woolf but still a star) and Joe Delaney (American football player and saint). Plus, the Great White Shark is my spirit guide and if I have to end up being anyone’s Sunday brunch I’d much rather go to someone I love and respect.