“I finally know why I’m leaving.”
Then with scissors
she tinged the thread.
We laid the quilt
in the coffin, bowing
our heads like bent book pages.
The first procession:
the dance with death. His fingers
kissed her weary legs.
She was uplifted on
his palms,
her torso bridging to the ceiling.
The second procession:
the pews. Their wooden shoulders
donned stained-glass sun-dust.
We sat within them, our closed eyelids
painted, our waxy eyelashes
dripping crayon-colors.
The third procession:
the ground. We laid down
once more, to sleep beside her.
We mitigated; sent our snows
back to the sky, so that the clouds
could be white instead of gray.
“Enough with all this black!”
The crescent-like sun had
fashioned so many shadows.
We’d finally made bare
our eyes to see who was with us,
and who was not.
But anyways, that's really all I have to say.
