Poetry / February 2010 (Issue 10)


by Elizabeth Schultz

The coffins were always with us,
hollow trees, black and polished,
resting patiently along the wall.
Our dining table balanced between them.
We stretched out by them at night.
Occasionally the elders who owned
them visited that steaming attic.
They said none of us had long,
and gave the coffins a familial pat.
Late at night, we disputed fate, rattling
the dice on the floor and catching
their glint on the coffins' hard lacquer.

Editors' note: Read "A Cup of Fine Tea: Elizabeth Schultz's "Options"" here.

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