Lila Waterfield

Lazarus, Come

He’s all skin and bones
I said plainly. The cat lay
near my cheek. 

This time I let him,
not because he slept;
I just couldn’t hold 

the stripes of his ribs
a fourth time that night.
Few things have permanence 

like what does us harm;
regret is silver-white uranium
and heavier yet to carry. 

Still, it has a half-life, or
however chemists measure
the rate by which we disappear. 

From pane, light slatted
skeletal and bodiless
atop my body, 

draped a chair’s frame
which could have held lungs
wanting breath. 

I needed to ask
how he did this, every night
pace his grave. 

The room was full of ribs
as the cat rose,
loping into the shadows.

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Lila Waterfield is a freelance editor, journalist, poet and full-time procrastinator. She received a BA in English from the University of Toledo. Her poems have found a home in Anti-Heroin Chic and her byline has appeared in the Toledo City Paper and its subsidiaries.