Lori looked at the grave of her despair.
How beautiful the thick sod and the simple white stone.
She considered opening up the grave
to be sure of decomposition.
Lori felt despair’s ghost reach from the other world
to grab her brain, twist her mind and skew her perception.
This provoked a drink shot of whiskey response
where Lori’s neural synapses exploded like fireworks.
She railed against the idea, but stood up
turned toward the current half-life iteration of a bar.
Lori felt the sky lower itself like the curtain
at the end of an Anton Chekov play.
As she took her third step, worms bit into despair’s tongue
and took away its ghost’s ability to disarticulate sentences.
Abruptly she stood in a fog bank
while crows scolded her for pointing aimlessly upward.
She began to parrot old sermons from nineteen-thirties
and forties Hollywood movies.
With squawks, the crows maneuvered Lori not home
but beyond their boundary in this world and the next.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney