Death and Taxes
by Allyson Whipple

Someday, my paramour will die.
Nobody will know to call me.
For months, I’ll drive around
in my scratched, dented car,
past the bars where we drank
away Sunday afternoons, wonder
if something happened or if
he just stopped calling.

This morning, one dark cloud
races across a sky filled with white.
No sun to filter through
the empty blue absinthe
bottle on my windowsill.

One day, my mother won’t
be able to take care of herself.
How am I going to pay for that?
Debts always come back,
always know where to find you.

If I ever marry again, it must
take place in the Sedlec Ossuary,
because if I’m going to try
that again, I want to start
surrounded by the inevitable.


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