by Emily Ramser
our waitress has
death dates tattooed
across her teeny tiny
pale wrists
bracelets encircling, encircling, encircling, encircling
with memories
I see them as she tosses menus, asking us our orders,
there is a name, a name I cannot see, hidden in the shadow of her hand
the shadow of the mountain upon the valley
but she has death dates, dates tattooed across her veins
hands I don’t want touching my food, poisoning it with thoughts of
cemeteries and lilies laid on bodies.
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