A lonesome threshold, yesterday was light as confetti / from a wedding that bled in thirty litres of martyred roses / How long are three hundred steps from a church, to stucco walls the colour of sorrow?
Soil, the tint of blood, ichor of mountain Gods, deveined for lost embrace of roots / Wind whistling away regrets in the dust of liberated souls / Would it sing for her, embalmed in the bowels of earthβs sanguine hum?
April heat, weighted with a dirge of tears salted in ocean / rusting the trumpet and violin strings / Who will tune the piano for mass, now that those musical men sailed before her, in paper boat memoirs?
The Goliath tree rooted in bones, a giant on such sustenance / gatekeeper of souls tethered to fleshy sinews in beds of solitude / Will she be interred in fruit, as he suppers on her animated putrefaction?
Suffering, twice a child, once a lady, she didnβt stay long to be swaddled in linens of pity, cottons of commiserations / Where will I store the enameled chamber *** for when I grow up to be her likeness?
Nightshades, funneling viscous memories, trumpeting in a pastel wilderness, alkaloid racket waiting to sound in the poisons of prayerful echoes / When will they bloom, toxic with grief of a swelling past, so I may sleep as soundly as her?
Inspired by death in my village, remembering my grandmother ...