These Things of His Which I Take To Market
There is a woman who trolls the streets of this city selling old souls. She travels by bike and peddles her wares out of a basket. The first soul I bought belonged to an undertaker whom I kept at my bedside so that he might core and ration my heart.
Once, I put the undertaker under my lover’s pillow. He dreamt of his wife’s body beside him in the bed.
Now I troll the humid streets looking for vintage goods and fine oranges. Such luxuries I bring home in a basket. I sit in our window flaking the peels, looking out over the causeway, wondering of France.
The world has adopted a strange silence. My skirt has forgotten how to thrill in the breeze. How many times each morning I think of the sound of the undertaker, his trinkets rattling in the canal of my ear.