Dead Girl
I live inside the movie they are making.
A black and white low-budget indie.
I’d been dead a couple weeks,
maybe years,
when I spotted the flyer
down in the gutter:
Dead girl wanted,
age twenty to twenty-five at death.
No pay, no lines to say,
should look bad, but not gross.
Must be able, at all times,
to keep both eyes open.
No tattoos profaning the deity.
Must have full set of fingers and toes.
May have up to five teeth missing.
Slight stink okay.
I’m anticipating the wrap,
looking forward to the can.
The director guarantees I’ll have a career,
soon as I let him do me in the rear.
What he does not know is a widow
spun her web in the hollow of my rectum.
And, um, oh – how I wait, sans anger,
for that soft head getting –
deep and juicy –
fanged.
