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The Wake (Poem)
Black-winged with blood-red heads, they gather round.
Offering no lamentations, no respectful pause, they feed.
Such scavengers appear to have a shrouded mien.
This is solely our imputation.
In the distance a dog howls.
Rain falls from a darkened sky.
Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas.
Echoes in my empty heart.
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The Bouquet (Poem)
She hands me a bouquet of flowers with heart-shaped leaves.
She smiles shyly as I put them into a vase and says,
“These are beautiful, just like you.”
How do I tell her that I cannot will not do not do this?
I know that she presents more wants more,
That this floral gift is but a prelude and opening question.
Best to dash these hopes now.
She can find another who sees
The glorious pink, the gentle fragrance, and the tender silk.
Not I, for I see all this yes but also
The wilted brown, the musk of decay, and the brittle dryness as they die.
I kiss her gently, a parting farewell, and walk her to the door.
This is love.
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Skeleton Practice (poem)
Supine in corpse pose.
I close my eyes and count my breaths.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
One by one, my bones leave my body.
They hover disjointed in the air.
Other bones appear.
All begin a caper mad and whirl in abandon.
The universe is nothing but dancing skeletal relics.
Then comes a singe clap.
All motion ceases. The bones dissolve.
Only radiant light remains
And the fading crackle of a death rattle.
