Construction Literary Magazine

January 2017 Writers Respond

Our Last Sabbath Whirring Down

Our Last Sabbath Whirring Down
Photograph via Flickr by nebojsa mladjenovic


How many people rise and think
Oh good the stranger’s body’ s still here
pumping air out of the room?

Climb the trunk toward the cavernous branch,
the sunstroked arm
curtained in a flap of wings
about to be ripped clean.

How many people fall and think
it’s too late to be an organ
donor for anyone anymore?

My organ music has turned off
you and your skull witch
lab cryogenics cracked into
the shot glass of the mirror.

We are sinking down into batter
made from blood and syrup
of Ipecac. I don’t remember why.
You don’t remember your name.

I am wild eyed staring
at your own broken face.
Your gaze is embedded in the ceiling fan,
as if you are drumming up another confrontation
in the confessional booth.

Parts of both of us
know it’s too late.