Karen Greenlee

For years, I believed in death

because I, too, was dead. You can know you are feeling

and still not feel, all your nerves

assembled in some outsourced factory, off-brand Nikes called Nikos

whose only purpose is to deceive.

They fit your feet fine at first, but soon you’re walking on a beach of salt.

They grow holes. They lose their soles.

This is what it’s like to have sex with the dead. Their skin, at first,

is smoother than you can imagine

and smells of earth. Their hair embraces your fingers like the wind,

so soft and sure. The body accepts

all of you, no matter how broken you are. It will never judge.