shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

David Colodney

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Posers who claim to have known her
still talk about how her heart just stopped,
pulverized into pieces of pumping dust,
beating as hard as they could, myriads of mini hearts,
each one failing, none of the diminished
pieces working alone as they could whole,
driving oxygen through jammed highways of polluted veins.

When she was alive, her wildfire eyes changed color
with each new tattoo shimmering on her chameleon skin.
Maybe she kept adding tattoos or maybe she got smaller
so there seemed like more, the ironic horseshoe
on her left shoulder branded too late
the leftover heart dust
blown away, lost forever