Abigail

It must have been a strange sensation

navigating tension neuroses, from space

unoccupied

Flesh and blood appear alike,

at least enough to be identifiable,

with some of the odd

idiosyncrasies

            Continuations

Amorphous without clearly

delineated courses, spinning cones

shape clay into something

unrecognizable

The day, shifting into hazy dusk,

drifting into Fall, sullen steps,

tracks uncovered

You bought me a tape,

King Diamond’s Abigail, when you took

me to the driving range

at some weird little record store

adjacent to a gas station in exurbs,

still in the 1980’s,

Sandy Plains

The weird little ways to make

connections

with those who are thirteen

Oh, the horror spared you

in the lyric sheet

Lines compelled to cross,

inverted

Despite all sacred text, best laid

inversions stare back oblivious

to righteous origins

In brooding emaciation, the years affixed,

ungrateful and unknowing

lacking comfort and dignity

in your generations’ passing

Matt Mauldin
11/2017
Santa Barbara, CA