Mark Smith

Riffles to a Vanish

Holding the head of the crayfish hollow, picked clean. Something hungered to have death in its mouth. Something hungered along this low summer water because its eyes bead less black. Its parchment of armor fainter layers of pink. So I set it free on creek that riffles to a vanish. It bobs, wades back to where it once clawed, where it once peeked out from a mossy cove of stones. And I think of shell against skin. Of blood mixed with silt. The taste of mud on my tongue.

morning sun
letters on her headstone
cold to the touch