A poem by EMMA NIHILL.

Your face seemed benign enough, if one ignored the white spittle gathering at the corners of your mouth.

I didn’t notice it in the dark.

I tasted something like stale sugar glued to dry lips and it made me retch.

Have you ever thought about a raw egg mashed into the side of a blushing face?

Death in germination.

I remember you were scared of something aborted, half-made.

Dried to white, cooked to white.

Isn’t it forlorn, an unmade bed stained with absent desire.

You were mean; in stature, in voice.

I don’t remember your name.

Just something sticky.