Jill Szoo Wilson

He called her a corpse

Deflated her air

Rolled her body up

From her toes to her hair

And sat on her skin

Until her spirit

Became thin

A sweet smelling puff

Escaped her lips—


“I’m still alive”

Was

All

She said.


She lay on the earth

Drawn-on with dirt

The muscles in his arms

Dug deep beside

The crumpled she

He struggled to hide

He needed a hole

As deep as it was

Wide.


His sinews tore

His ligaments bore

The weight of

Moisture soaked mud

Sweat poured from his face

A frenetic pace

Fighting against the hole

In the ground and inside

His soul.


His arms fell to his sides—

Steel and wood

Now a finger

On his hand

An extension

A plan—

One last

Connection to she

Awake in the grave.


One inhale—

Peace

One exhale—

Release

One inhale—

Regret

One exhale—

Cold sweat

And his future stared.


He could not go back

Ahead was a trap—

Brightly lit

The way

Was clear

But illumination

Is not

The same as

Consolation.


He sat in his safety

Buoyant

Afloat

Stillness

Stagnation

Narration calling,

“I’m still alive”

Her apparition

His aberration.


Wires exposed

The path that he chose

Storm clouds above

Drowning out love

No finish to the start

Interrupted heart

No dreams to know

No nightmares bestowed

She leapt from the tomb

Alive—

© Jill Szoo Wilson, 2025