An Attempt at Saving Sam
Since you left, the pantry no
longer needs refilling, laundry
piles into pyramids, and my under-
wear changes as often as the sheets.
I sat robed in the blackness, tore
out my hair and used it to spell
your name, postered the mirrors
with our hometown obituaries,
even prayed over their bodies,
until remembering Preacher Don's
sermon about praying for
the living, cause the dead
can't be saved. So I struck
a match and watched the ink
run their deadness together in
the flames; keeping you stored
separate--in a makeshift
coffin--so no one turns the paper
corpse of you into mache or
protective wrapping or a wet-pad for
some untrained house pooch.
No comments:
Post a Comment