Red wine walls, talking floorboards. In the
oily museum light I am almost afraid to touch her to
thumb the dip above her mouth
warm the glowy wrinkles of her still lip. I can only stroke
the boomerang curve of
jawbone the smooth spot tucked under
her ear and then my fingers smell
like metal. Have you ever smelled the farmhouse
scent of marrow?
Ask the butcher for some
bones and boil them until your house reeks
with the sick smell of
old blood. I shudder, think of swarms
of hands pressing
for a break in the armor, a lilly-soft breast,
flesh to snuff out burnt bones to smear like
greasy ashes on the riverbank
brush my hand against her cheek watching
evaporate from shiny skin.
Emily Murman is a nineteen-year-old writer and illustrator based in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. She holds a Bachelor’s of Arts in writing from Lake Forest College and has most recently been published in Déraciné and The Green Light. Emily can be found on Twitter @emilyrosemurman.