Death succubus

             A spray of mottled Vivian Maiers
slinging themselves onto each other,
lutescent. A friend says when you die
there’s nothing, only darkness; &
I respond with of course not when
there’s photographs. Art is unnatural
because it elevates the human experience —

             now everyone jumps off cliffs. I strut
on a renaissance bridge, terribly
massive with articulate design. I wear
a handmade mink sling: my arm broke
as I was draining the basin of sepia —

             it didn’t warn me because it’s immoral
& must; it warned me because I
may leave distraught. I remember a
cave I slept in, with obscured evidence
of the dead left, Rolleiflex in mouth, I
journey to a bird who has no interest in
frivolous arts, to convince her to stay.

Dorothy Lune

Dorothy Lune is a Yorta Yorta poet, born in Australia. Her work has appeared in Pinhole Poetry and more. She is looking to publish her manuscripts and can be found online @ dorothylune. She also has a substack, which is accessible at https://dorothylune.substack. com/

More by Dorothy Lune ›

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