This year marks the two hundredth anniversary of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, which remains one of the saddest books I’ve ever read. I’ve only read it once but will soon rectify that, thanks to Arizona State University’s Frankenbook project (there’s also a host of interesting, Frankenstein-related things here and here).

All of this Frankenstein talk might explain the following poem which came to be, more or less intact, two nights ago.


I’m known for my beautiful butchery,
she told me. That night, I found a
severed hand, still gripping a snapshot
of her. Later, I stumbled over a grinning
head with her name still on its bruised lips.
The moon shone down on other body
parts, each speaking to me, so I gathered
them and stitched together a forsaken
Frankenstein’s creature. I never returned to her.
My new friend and I moved in together and
had quiet discussions about every subject but love.

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