octopus books

My Dead

Amy Lawless

$12
102 available
paperback
isbn: 9780985118235
04/2013
67 pages

Amy Lawless

Amy Lawless is the author of two books of poetry including My Dead (Octopus Books, 2013) and Noctis Licentia (Black Maze Books, 2008). She grew up in Boston and currently lives in New York City, where she was a 2011 NYFA Fellow in poetry. Amy keeps a blog at amylawless.blogspot.com

praise for My Dead

Lawless writes poetry that itches; you have to bury your fingernails into your skin and bleed a little to remind yourself not to scratch it.

—Janae Green, The Boiler

excerpt from My Dead

When two cannibals start dating, they’re just like us. First awkward date includes coffee or alcohol. Maybe some furious necking in a cab or in the hallway near the restroom. When she got home, she looked in the mirror and she looked the same as yesterday. But in her own eyes she saw something different. She saw who he saw. Aristophanes’ creation myth was never considered, but its blueprint was etched inside her skull. When two cannibals continue seeing each other seriously, it’s no different from when you started dating your lover. The bathroom door is kept closed during use even though the conversations were so damned interesting and hard to pull away from. Sheets are washed at such rapid pace from wear, at least one cannibal cancels a long-held gym membership. One cannibal says, You make me a better person. This makes the other cannibal cry. Their mouths meld together wet with tears. The feast was quite fine. To quote August Wilson, the cannibals try to blast a hole into forever. They stay in all weekend continuing a decently organized search-and-destroy mission that always ends in a self-absorbed celebration. But when one cannibal finds out that the other cannibal was still fucking his ex for the first month they were seeing each other, the cannibals stop seeing each other. Thankfully, the erring cannibal certainly knows enough about how Hollywood defines romance to show up unannounced with flowers and cries his heart out until their mouths pressed together sticky with tears, and they decide (with their breasts, penises, vaginas and assholes, mouths and eyes) to face infinity together. At the cannibal wedding those invited looked upon them. Those who had loved and lost cried. And those who had never loved but wanted to love cried. And she, who had looked inside herself and knew that it’s just fucking wrong to expect another person to fill one’s vessel, cried too because she was the loneliest. She was the one person whose heart needed to be eaten the most.