by Tony Schanuel
Inchworms
Black sedans are not black sedans anymore.
The rest remains.
I’ve lost your bones. I only have my blubber
flesh falling off my body
bit by bit to the vibration of every string
in every particle in every atom
a tender melody.
I’ve heard you’re no longer afraid of the world.
You’ve forgotten how to loathe.
I haven’t forgotten. I stay put
in these zip ties, my limbs
your gaunt dry hands
an eternity of everything
but your pores brushed against mine.
I could settle the score
if there’s such thing as an afterlife
but what would I even say to you?
Maybe I could tell you that I see inchworms
all the time, enough to recharge suns.
I could shove it in your face
my innocence kept and yours lost forever.
I could also apologize for the new roads not taken
for my honesty blackened by your heavy eyes.
I stuffed marbles in my ears instead of hopping along
to the beat of a misanthropic notary public.
I’m sorry, I’m speaking in tongues.
I love you. What else is there to say?
Lillian Tzanev is a writer from NYC. She has appeared in The Allegheny Review, Short Vine Literary Journal, The Messenger, and WLN: A Journal of Writing Center Scholarship, and she is forthcoming in The Broadkill Review and Prairie Margins. Lillian currently teaches ESL in Bulgaria.
Tony Schanuel is an award-winning photographer and visual artist who has fused a professional background in photography, digital technology, and painting and mark making to create fine art that transcends those mediums. His work has been featured in Digital Imaging Magazine, Computer Graphic Magazine, Wild Heart Journal, St. Louis Design Magazine, and is a featured artist in Cyber Palette and Extreme Graphics, two books showcasing digital artists and their work. He has exhibited at the Florence Biennale and his art is held in private and corporate collections including the Fine Arts Museum of Houston permanent photographic collection. http://www.schanuelphoto.com/.