Huron Cemetery Poems IX

August 22, 2018

It’s too hot to sit with the dead today
     so I float above them,
     hanging on for dear life to the strings
     of a bunch of many-colored balloons.
Up high, where the air is much cooler,
     the oxygen less dense.
The vacuum of space waits hidden above me;
     a black, gaping maw poised to chomp.

Death above, death below, dying in between,
     one hand gripping balloon strings,
     the other trying to choke down a mustard-soaked sardine sandwich.
In the distance, beyond the curve of the earth,
     a thing so monumental its name cannot fit into a human ear.
In the distance, all lived pasts and livable futures.

There may be a mustard stain on my crisp, white shirt
     but I’m afraid to look.
Perhaps the dead have asked me to stay away today.
It’s probably not so hot outside after all.


Capture

Huron Cemetery Poems IX

Sock it to me

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