Words

Sarah Frazier

Apocalypse Party

They dance the twist in new Nike kicks
With brown bags over their heads.
Conquest fills up at the keg.
Couples crawl into beds.

White robes come off to go streaking.
They stomp on the floor till it’s creaking.
War grinds with girls, who’ve shaved their heads,
Then hands their boyfriends a beating.

There’s something in the Kool aid.
God will punish, if you don’t chug!
Famine raids the fridge for snacks.
A priest vomits on the rug.

Popping pills in the parlor,
The eunuchs are in a world of bliss.
Death passes out in a corner.
It’s time for the final eclipse.

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Iris,
     Auguste Rodin, 1890-91

Blackened lung,
Sleek with a sheen of spit,
Boiled blubber, oily pitch,
Juicy drop of ink,
Arm and leg together
Stretch to mark
An ellipsis, a faded rainbow.
You bear a message from the Gods—
Headless, dormant, dead.

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Day Old Possum

Worm-tail and heart
Swirl with shit on the roadside sand—
Wet enough for castles. Concrete mixes
With remnants of femurs. The flies murmur,
Spit on the gut and pulp. The pelvis cracked;
His hips sink inward. The stink
Doesn’t bother buzzards.

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