Your Overspill / by Rebecca Tillett

So blowing bubbles
in your overspill,
your liquid remains,
your blood, your organs, your bones –
morbid indeed but something good
from something bad and
today and tomorrow bumblebees afloat –
transforming red to black and yellow,
my poetry’s incoherent, inaudible,
and an abundance of technical jibberish
knotting and sliding in cardboard boxes
like motel hookers inside their work –
$12 an hour for penetrating something sacred
but that’s the remains of a sane living.
So blowing bubbles in your overspill –
with nothing but memory of your face and mine –
but as I play in your remains I’ll
see what’s left in tomorrow’s tabloids.