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a poem by
Laura McCullough
> bio

Aesthetics of Evil

There are none; too simple
to imagine as if death opened
a door into the mind
of endless hills over which

no one can cross alone; even
if they dared, they could not,
unable to carry what sustains
the living, and if they could,

how would it be harnessed?
What would hang across
each shoulder erupting
over the doused mountains

of self, incredibly beautiful
as the skeletal remains
of people who didn't know
better and preserved corpses

in lye to rot, but they did not?
Across bridges of occipital
lobes or noses, more lovely
than naked stone jutting

from a wooded precipice?
Across the knee bent
in repose when they couldn't
walk another step, alone,

carrying so very much?
Oh, the gorgeous colors
of fading skin, the dark
water marks beneath frozen

eyes staring about them
for someone, anyone,
alone or not, who will
extend a hand to them.


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