A Death In The Sun
Updated: Jun 6, 2019
Man speaks your name like a burning anathema,
and picks up your body where
butterflies of newspapers circle above you.
The yellow sun is in your hair, the darkened color
of tamed waters.
The warm yellow sun—
The quiet yellow sun—
Your death rides a black van;
Your death, more real than life, comes at five o’clock,
in a wedding tuxedo.
*published in Eunoia Review 2018