You tell her she's beautiful
I think you should tell her what you really mean
You think she's beautifuck

The boxes
which keep my blood clean
are stacked as tall as I,
a monument
in the spare room
to past battles.
Too many words,
too many thoughts
******* in the
hand-to-hand combat
with mortality.

No more.

What life I have
will not be defined
by an indeterminate end.

I live to write poems;
I will no longer die in them.

i want, said
a man
satisfaction got he immediate
day got he quick
without going through
dawn, got the lift up
skyward, never had
to work for a piece
so all men know
he's standing pat.

please,
another man said
was halted
found himself crumpled
broken-ribbed on her
fleshy bottomglass
stretched out
squished insectly
half of him went
with her, she reveled
in his missing half
slow pining gusts
they shook
and trembled
they whimpered beneath
a disgrace that was enough
to call himself counseled
but not enough
to call himself
a man.

the weight of seven
hummingbirds -- 21 grams --
is what leaves the body
after death

on that hummingbird breath
the soul leaves
a wispering whisper
of seven tiny, winged cavatinas

being sung back
and singing themselves
forward
into the chorus

to enter again
a melody -- in
the Eye Of God

shimmering
iridescent
wings beating
the rhythm of Love



c. 2018 Roberta Compton Rainwater

Even as dying, I have no time
For bitterness.

Life was too short,
Even before.

Each step holds gratitude for the sound
Of snow beneath it.

For
Now

I carry my passenger
Unburdened.

Say no to nothing. Not
Even the cancer.

Even tomorrow's mother's tears,
Father's clenched fists upon casket;

Flowers; loss. Inevitability.
Death grows inside me.

The opposite of a
Pregnancy.