i hate this nasty new disease
this virus that imperils each breath
that has me reading portents in a sneeze,
and peering round corners looking for death.
did you know sirens have a dying sound
a sort of fucked up banshee wail?
it’s the sound of a life winding down
as the body of a neighbor begins to fail.
every day we hear the lazy cry
as the ambulance crawls to a stop
at door of another family nearby
waiting for the final shoe to drop.
you feel a shameful creeping disbelief
as the stretcher moves up another’s walk
and your shoulders sag in relief
when the siren moves on up the block.
M. Morehead – 4/26/2020
a tug, a tow, a twitch, a tweak,
with silken thread sewn through my cheek.
slices, snicks, scores, slashes,
a razor skates up toward my lashes.
a pinch, a prick, a puncture pierce,
the pins inside my jaw are fierce.
In darkness under the bridge we sit,
your ashes secured in a wooden chest.
The tiny weight of you reduced further still
by the trappings of your final rest.
The loss of you pours from me in salty waves,
I’m nigh drowning in the undertow.
While alive your heart was joined with mine
with you dead, mine doesn’t know where to go.
Any dream I had of seeing you again
vanished with the puff of your last breath,
for what chance does hope really have
when faced with the harsh reality of death?
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