QUE LINDA by Dakota Pollock

I sat at the end of The bed in our Bedroom.

Her dress hung from The cheap clothing rack I’d picked up from the Dollar store on Broadway.

The dress, it was formless, But still held the shape of Her body which was very much Alive even though she was Somewhere else. I yanked the dress from the hanger, Throwing myself into The floral patterns sewn into The black cotton.

It still smelt like her, too, And though my nose had Been crushed and smashed, Carelessly played with like My stupid trusting heart, I took in that smell, letting The intimate last touches of her Graze my booger and snot crusted Nose hairs.

I ran the dress up and down My face, pulling a strand of Her hair from the shoulders Where that hair once swept, Swung and moved like The fingers of Mozart While he rested and relaxed them In salt water.

I start to cry, Pathetically holding the dress Weeping, heaving, grieving And sulking with a cool self pity That still didn’t bring her back.

I looked at myself in the mirror, The red tear stained face Staring back at me, and I said, If only she could see me now.

I finally let out a groan, an Inhuman kind of snort Like a pig stomping on a Shank of burning hay.

Snot dripped from my Nose landing on the Floor, the dress, the knees Of my jeans.

I was too crazed to notice That I was using the dress To wipe the tears from my face, Running it across the acne scars Shaped like Mars' ancient canals

It was then that I perked up, Seeing a cockroach strolling Across the floor, moving towards The hole in the wall behind The radiator.

I jumped onto the edge of The bed where my legs sank into the mattress grooves From the humps caused my legs

I threw her dress At the roach

While I tumbled and fell into the mattress, and Though I tried to get The cockroach, he, like Everything else, got me first. And the dress lie there, Among the dust, toenails, strands Of hair, In a crumpled shape That was kind of shaped Like her, But at that moment, I couldn’t remember What she even looked like And wouldn’t have cared If I did. FORMLESS I went into our bedroom And sat at the edge of the bed. Her dress was hanging from The clothing rack. It was formless, but still, very much alive. I pulled the dress from the hanger And threw myself into it. There was her smell, entwined With the floral patterns, The thin black cloth That once held her form, The shoulders laced and small, Where her hair swung and swept, Like Mozart’s fingers During Concerto 21. I started crying, Weeping, heaving, pitying myself, Before I finally managed To let out a groan and This inhuman kind of snort Like a pig stamping the damp end Of a fire burnt piece of hay. The only part of myself Remaining Was the snot dripping from my nose. I used her dress to wipe my face, The tears hiding in the acne scars, And I saw a cockroach running Towards the radiator So I tossed her dress at the roach, To scare him off. But it only landed there, Among the dust and toenails, In a shape that was no longer hers. No longer mine either.