Paintings rot onto the marble of the Brooks Museum,
fungally pink and blue and dark, almost brown, green.
Garibaldi’s Pizza sign howls as wind passes through
its broken pepperoni constellation. There is no point
in trying to debeauty the thing, just because people
ate each other into a steaming thin of gore.
All the fake plants stand at attention, the refrigerated
sections of grocery stores a sealed bacterial jungle, row
after row of green bellies in various stages of gestation.
Beside me, Morgan looks into the sun. Turns at me.
“What color are my eyes right now?” Soft green
of new moss. They sadden as she litanies the empty
world of that imagination. Her own body, bitten
and jagged, being taken over.
