from "The Mourners Forget Which Funeral They Are At"
by Matt McBride

  1. I let the children
  2. sew buttons onto my skin.
  1. A point after which
  2. I’d ceased to be promising.
  1. My eyes shelled
  2. like eggs.
  1. I may have been speaking.
  2. It’s hard to remember.
  2.      *
  1. My mind felt like a hotel
  2. in which everyone
  3. was trapped in their rooms.
  1. With detachable hands,
  2. I prayed.
  1. The bodies kept asking me
  2. to step into their enormous overcoats.
    The light left a chalk behind itself.
  2.      *
  1. Yesterday kept taking longer.
  1. Tangles of phone chargers
  2. bushed on sidewalks.
  1. Doll voices spoke between clouds.
  1. There were no feelings
  2. for the words I had.
  2.      *
  1. All the flags came up white.
  1. Milk curdled in the streets.
  1. The children
  2. used old prescriptions
  3. as rattles.
  1. Like any fruit,
  2. my heart went bad.
  2.      *
  1. Mannequins pendulumed
  2. from the streetlamps
  3. with a lonely dignity.
  1. A feeling of watching myself
  2. through the windows of a dollhouse,
  3. painting my body on the walls.
  1. My seat was not a floatation device.
  1. I was a hole
  2. the world fell through.
Packingtown Review – Vol.10, Spring 2018

Matt McBride's work has previously appeared in Cream City Review, Diagram, FENCE, Mississippi Review, Map Literary, Ninth Letter, [PANK], Tupelo Quarterly, and Typo amongst others, as well as in Volume 2 of Packington Review. His most recent chapbook, Cities Lit by the Light Caught in Photographs, was published by H_NGM_N Books in 2012. His first book, City of Incandescent Light, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in May, 2018.

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