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[Return to the Moor]

Updated: 2 days ago

by Kurt Edward Milberger


Editor's Note: Due to the formatting of this poem, it is best enjoyed on desktop.

###


blades whirring

wind blowing

    hands shaking


feet touch down

on familiar ground


Do you recall, Ms. Hindley,

where the body of Keith Bennet

    may be found?


I came for the miniatures,

the little glass bottles

     of taste and sweet scent,

  of memory

      and where it leads—


      how we collided into each other


his books


my wool cardigan, its 

      golden label: ELEGANCE


       thick tufts of dried grass


                spade crunching 

                              into dried earth


limp cardboard box full of photographs


    the scarf

    stuffed

into her mouth


they called it a folie à deux

our unique madness

that hot desire

that overtook us together


they forgot my tousled Puppet

    ambling over

                            sharp rocks and weeds


  fence posts lean

great lengths of sagging

barbed wire


KILBRIDE scratched

on the subject line

of a black marbled composition notebook

too thick to properly fold


  his broad- 

toothed smile


      freckles


        her slit throat


            hard plastic buttons—smile—

on her downy melton coat,

the 

    the balaclava wrapped

      atop her curly hair


an endless ribbon of white clouds


unspooling across the sky


        an

                            arm bone

      sticking out of wet peat


    thirteen minutes 


    a few yards of thin tape

thirteen minutes


of Lesley Ann Downey’s 

screaming pleads


      the album of our misery


                                  the clear plastic tube


they forced down his throat

to keep


him alive

    when he 

stopped eating


when he tried to die

before his time


—I always thought mine the worse crime...

I enticed the kids. They would never have

come along if I hadn’t done what I did.


    all of this bric-


a-


    brac


and

an 


  empty 


      heart-

shaped chocolates

box

given


as 


gift


I’m sorry, I can’t—it’s too hard.

I can’t remember any more than that. 



 


Kurt Edward Milberger writes and lives in Georgia with his family and a goldfish called Sarah. His work has appeared in Litmora and is forthcoming in Moss Puppy Magazine. He is on twitter @kurtmilb.

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