

Your Sepulchre
There is a pulse,
But there is no sound.
Can you hear it?
It is the dirt you shake loose,
the bloom of seeds you scatter.
Put a thumb against it and feel,
everything there is to feel.
Not a thrum, nor a vibrato,
keeping you absolved
from which dark, distant, corner
you’ve spilled blood on.
There is a pulse—
And what’s behind
is no longer tangible.
There is only you,
some trails of blood,
And a pulse.
That doesn’t much
make a
Sound.
If you liked Your Sepulchre, you will love Chelsea Yanga‘s previous work on The Ugly Writers:
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