wildscape. literary journal

Mouthpiece of the Dead
by Lee Krauss

Nothing grows in this forest. I am entirely made up 
of nothing and until you cut me open, 
slice through my diaphragm, sunlight pouring out

of my chest, you cannot convince me otherwise— 
Ceremonially, we all gather and announce 
that our bones have been bleached a sterile-

white– could we have chosen another color?
I am choking on the flowers caught
in my throat: violets and tulips and Queen

Anne’s lace; poppies, begonias— when
I cough up a garden, everyone smiles. I smile,
too, can’t help but hope that they’ll like it. My lips,

split down the center, brush the raw edge 
of a paint-chipped cup. I wonder if it has 
ever been tested for lead. You are stargazing behind 

my ribs, but I’m planting oak branches in the dirt 
and visiting them like churches. I am tying strings
to dead birds– starlings, sparrows— and calling 

their puppets living angels. I am molding 
my wounds together with craft glue 
and convincing you that they’ve finally healed.

I invite you to reach through my skull and search
for something new. There is nothing. But. You 
don’t understand— this is not a sad poem.

I’m content to exist for nothing.

about the author // Lee Krauss