The Other Side is Still Here

There’s never funerals, only parsed words,

comely and light; we fragrant few, listen

to each other, through cheesecloth, words

bold on screens, irregular wanderers, like

pulp, our family pretends, it dragons and

puffs, chained to the radiator, where my

eldest brother still lives, persecuted by a

tripping light and wain, his soul masked

by matronly guilt, brick and mortar walls,

an attic of panic, but I always get the call,

then there’s no funeral, reasons like spring,

when it rains and doesn’t, and rains, then

flowers grow, then they die, like morning

dreams, symphonies of birds, resting here,

so I visit cemeteries, I bereave my losses,

for people that I don’t know, because like

my being, their death is simply the same, a

life where no one close, ever has a funeral.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on March 21, 2017.

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