A zombie wants to take a bath,
but her skin would slide off in the hot water.
Instead, she dips her arms into the sink,
like wicks into wax.
Why would a corpse wash herself?

Frankenstein is not the name of the monster I shrank.
I made a room small enough for small monsters.
Now that everything is small, I can talk.
Even if my face is a peeled grape.
Even if my hands fall off in the sink.

Why would a corpse wash herself?
I actually like romantic comedies better.

Mary Shelley and I finally get together
to talk about what she thinks a zombie is
and I piss her off by saying I never read
Dracula, “No, that’s Bram Stoker.”
And Bram Stoker suddenly shows up,
wrapped in a worn shroud, and says:
“No, I’m Bram Stoker.”

Why would a corpse wash herself?
This question must’ve been covered in a book.

Frankenstein is the name of my primary care doctor.
He told me to lose weight and then amputated
my arms to “make a deer, but out of human arms.”
I ask him where he got his medical license,
he replies, “You still get to have a body.”

Why would a corpse wash herself?
To be whistle-clean, spit-shining.


I'm about Five Minutes Away from Dying of Heart Failure

by Lizzy Sobiesk

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Lizzy Sobiesk

Lizzy Sobiesk is a poet based out of the Hudson Valley in New York. This is her first publication.

Payment can be given at @Lizzy-Sobiesk on Venmo