Dillon J. Welch

E.L. James Is Writing My Eulogy

There’s a certain greyness in her hands
tonight, pink vodka in a stirred calm
on the counter, a small pamphlet
from the mahogany coffin—now loose &
waterlogged—sitting in the rain by the shed.
Her posture slanted, she’s hunched herself
out of her own skin. E.L. is throwing
tarot cards at the wall & looking
for a sign. Tomorrow’s forecast will be
rain again, too many clouds on the
TV ticker. E.L. is twisting dental floss
around her pen, trying to loosen words
from her wrist. She’s pining for a lost
brochure left on someone else’s wooden
casket. E.L. is writing now, writing Dear
to those of you, loved & few, who he
who will be missed. It is late & E.L.
can’t tell if the ampersand looks right
so close to the “dear,” if it would scare easily,
the ampersand, not the dear. Now she’s on
this wildlife tangent. She’s drawing
two deer in a meadow with grass &
labeling it DEERS. She’s drawing
a coffin stuffed with rainclouds, a pen
tucked in the fluff. She wants me
to write this myself, wants my now-
loose & waterlogged bones to slouch
some words to paper. She’s drawing
this poem to a close, drawing the curtain
card from the deck. They’re velour
like his life, she says, & for some reason
I’m okay with this.

Dillon J. Welch is a writer from Southern New Hampshire. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gargoyle, Mixed Fruit, PANK, Red Lightbulbs & others. He is Poetry Co-Editor for the online quarterly, Swarm. Find him here.