her eyes- gutted

not sure where

the mascara starts

and the river ends.

pale white

numb skin

peaks through

an all black veil.

petrified-

what do i say-

what could i-

all the joyous stories

songs i’ve sung

happy credits,

void.

a lie.

what could i say-

to silence a screaming wraith

to unbury the dead

like a cleaning a fire

with a broom.

stuttering approach

steps fall deaf

on her sobbing ears-

her palms sit vacant

lowered in her lap-

a bucket.

icy damp palms,

–

i’ll hold her hand,

if she’ll let me-

the warmth-

it’s all

i have

right fist

aimed, like a slingshot

above the clouds

at apollo’s open chin-

before he

conducts another somber tune.

grief built like a fire

burning in a bloodied right fist:

broken frames

packed bags

a box-

“trash”-

empty perfume,

empty bottles,

a wrinkled, folded sonogram.

coconut breeze-

it was your favorite-

hangs over the bed,

still,

over your side,

a distant specter.

the fist once aimed

stared back, openly,

empty.

sun kissing the crown

of their would-be assassin,

before being swept,

by drifting clouds.