Susan Melinda Dunlap | The Piltdown Review

Susan Melinda Dunlap

River Salt

River Salt

The river running through my mouth bypassed my heart, the tongue dried up.
Mobile

Mobile

Swilling coffee on the roof of a Motel 6, sleepy, thinking of ham and biscuits and another cup.
The Dead Aren’t Quaint

The Dead Aren’t Quaint

I gathered a bottle of roses and wore a rayon red dress and sat in the oldest cemetery I could find.
For Rachel—

For Rachel—

For Rachel Wetzsteon, a poet who left the week I said good-bye to Manhattan, committing suicide just as I drove off.