not the worst way to die

on the eve of your twenty-ninth birthday
I clean your exit wounds
with the smirnoff vodka
we were meant to drink ourselves silly with.
the mulled flesh burns,
piping out blood like an erupting volcano.
perhaps it was not the greatest idea
to camp in hunting territory
dressed in brown fur coats.
the wind tastes like heavy metal
and your veins refuse to caulk themselves.
the trees commiserate with us,
their branches leaning downwards
in a futile attempt to cradle us from the world.
we await forest rangers
while I try to stitch your trembling skin together
where the arrow lacerated your left thigh.
under the quarter moon,
I ladle pre-packaged clam chowder into your mouth
and wipe away the spillage that waterfalls down your chin.
the sound of search dogs in the distance
cut through the echo,
but your skin is more like oak bark
and your lips have fault lines in them.
snow falls like confetti,
and I think to myself that
the world is much too in tune with the concept of irony,
presenting us with the closing scene,
the final celebration of you.
I go to lace my fingers in yours
but you bat my hands away.
“stop your worrying!
I’m only resting.
just resting.”

Maya Cheav is quite fond of haunted houses. Her writing has been featured in Bizarrchitecture and ALOCASIA. She’s a 2024 Tin House Workshop member and was a top ten finalist for the 2023 Palette Poetry Chapbook Prize, guest judged by Danez Smith. Read more at mayacheav.myportfolio.com/home.