CORPSES
A young girl and boy
found a body
washed up on the riverbank.
They were just sixteen,
romantic amateurs out for a stroll
at dusk
when they almost tripped over
that poor woman’s purple legs.
The girl screamed.
The boy felt sick,
clutched at his stomach.
I’ve never come across a body
and I’ve walked many an isolated trail
at the oddest of times.
I’ve done that hand-holding,
look-at-me-I-have-a-girlfriend-routine,
more than once
but the usual thing I discovered
was that the two of us
weren’t much suited.
I suppose that’s a corpse in its way
but not one that stinks
from too much time in the water.
Nor do maggots get at it.
Only thoughts.
Tiny white crawling thoughts sometimes.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
Midwest Quarterly, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal, Hawaii Review and the Dunes
Review.
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