Here is where the moon dips its head
to drink from my window.
My whole body is a bird-bath for dreams.
They come to rest,
and I welcome them.
My heart is full of worms
When I am dead, I will be beautiful
to the vultures, beautiful as a feast,
and any condor that can see me
will fall instantly in love—
Fall as if struck by Cupid’s arrow,
plummeting from the sky
to kiss me, to kiss my lips
right off the bone.
Aimee Lowenstern is a twenty-four year old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and is fond of glitter. Her work can be found in several literary journals, including BreakBread Magazine and Little Patuxent Review. Find her on Twitter @everyepithet.