by Summer Qabazard
The dead body of a bum
sprawled on the steps of city hall
beneath its roof gargoyles
against night sky in January.
His silver whiskers sat
in the folds of his skin
his smell, something biblical.
His teeth had mostly rotted out
or were in various stages of rot.
But one, I spied a gold fleck in
and pried the filling loose
with my fountain pen and shoe.
I threaded it with floss,
and wore around my neck.
And it lay there
like a secret pact.
Summer Qabazard is half Kuwaiti, half English. She grew up mainly in Kuwait, not far from the Arabian Gulf, and she has also lived in London, Boston, Cedar Falls, Iowa, and St. Louis, MO, where she obtained her B.A. and M.A. in Literature at The University of Missouri, St. Louis. She currently resides in Normal, Illinois, where she is a Ph.D student at Illinois State University, studying creative writing and becoming accustomed to cornfields. She lives with her favorite muse, Jessica Young, and their neurotic Chihuahua mix, Stella.