Tonight's Poet Corner: Rejected Eulogy
Rejected Eulogy by Belinda Roddie It's hard to stomach, isn't it? The smell of car exhaust. The odor pulsing like dying men's fingers, reaching out, aching for honey on their lips, sweet sips of nectar from gods who pretend they still care. More like opium: The fumes curl and dress you, turn the toxins into a new shirt, something to wear at your memorial service. Or the bottle of pills. Chalky, like school trauma. The tablets are ground into fine powder by your own mortar and pestle. Mix it into your final nightcap. Write last goodbyes before your hands grow shaky. Think of love before you get too sleepy. Eyelids have always held the weight of Atlas, who holds the weight of the world with him. Boulders shift colors and sizes when palmed by sweaty palms. Burdens shift colors and sizes when tied up in a bindle. You wander into train stations, where you contort your body into the shape of a wheel and hope that you can travel at the speed of a bullet t