The morning after death.
The sun rises to a world
dressed in silence.
& you'll sit on the edge
of your bed, reliving a night you taught
your tongue to grieve.
Death always visits
with a mouth full of bullets.
& you have gotten sick
of nursing pain.
You feel the floor
under your feet; cold
like a body in a morgue.
& you can't stop thinking of bodies.
& you can't stop thinking
& you can't stop--
This pain in your chest
feels like you have woven barbs
around your lungs.
The morning after death is
a leaky roof. A ceremony of all
things lost.
& you will try to hold on
to a smile the world no longer
has room for.
You will sit there in silence.
& you will hate every minute
of it. You will start to peel, to adopt
solemn prayers with your
trembling lips.
You will feel the quiet wrap
itself around you. You will struggle
to stand with its weight. &
you will beg
it to leave.
You will beg
it to leave.
You will beg.