When the Baker Hotel died,
no one ordered an autopsy
or called the local mortician.
They just left the carcass
at the crossroads where it fell,
bulging brickwalls, gouged eyes,
empty sockets jagg’d with glass.
On coffee break, the local doc
doesn’t wonder if he could
save her. Guilt dies without memory
so don’t bother picking the bones.
The marrow sold cheap to antique
stores and left rooms mostly hollow.
Shout your name in the stairwell,
the space will keep your voice
until midnight, bubbling in sulfur baths.
whispering at windows not yet broken,
at doors stuck in jams:
Remember me. Remember me.
—Marcus Goodyear, from Barbies at Communion
T. S. Poetry Press, 2010