I Dumped Edgar Allan Poe
with a swift kick from my left boot,
his asymmetrical face, like the front lobe
of his brain, plummeted into a puddle
by the old Boar’s Snout. A smashed
pumpkin, with brains inside.
His carved mouth, ajar, gurgling
through green liquid grime.
A bubble with every love letter still bursting
for that bitch: Annabel Lee. Well,
I am not Annabel Lee. The drunk
just couldn’t think of something
to rhyme
with sea. An ocean rippled
by his snorts and moans. A mouthful
of stagnant rain, rolling
to the edges of the puddle,
swallowing brick, splashing
the ruffles of my skirt. He reaches
out his ink-stained hand
the way he stirred anise into
the absinthe
with a long silver spoon, the night
he wept and told me: I was Annabel Lee.
Well, I am not Annabel Lee. I’m not
wrapped in twine. A pale blue
angel by the sea.
With a boot to his throat, he tries
to scream. Scream for all of his
Annabel Lees. A dozen pale-skinned
widows, lined against the shore of
his sea. All wondering if they were the
real Annabel Lee. Their tongues licking
him up and rolling him back. The
ocean’s rough throat, where a word
breaks through the surface.
A bubble
with the last bit of air expelled
for someone, not Annabel Lee.
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