“If I open the door he’ll flash and fade
like heat lightning behind a bank of clouds
one summer night at the edge of the world.”
—Mark Bibbins

All the men finally died, and that
was a wonderful thing. I knew
exactly where it would happen:
the beds they never slept in. Their legs
gliding like gazelles, their arms
by their sides, then on their knees.
They were all equestrian-themed,
unicorn stamps on their hands
that never washed off and too much
tequila. All the men said their love
swelled, in piles of wolf pictures
never hung, and they waited
for more secrets. They imagined
themselves as hidden artifacts,
either sacred or tired of humanity.
When they died, thousands of purple
flower buds opened at the base
of a mountain and said thank you.

– Matty Bennett