death

All posts tagged death

Altar

Published October 4, 2017 by April Fox

Let’s make a little altar here

from the things that we collected

while we walked.

Let’s make a little altar

from the broken sticks,

the colored leaves, the tiny

stones

that pressed between our palms

like everything.

Let’s make a little altar

from the love notes

and the bits of songs

the promises and tears

the handprints on the glass

in the back seat of the car.

Let’s make a little altar

with the shadowbox we made

from torn up paper, old receipts

the endless coffee cups,

the rain.

Let’s make a little altar

from the nursery rhymes and fairy tales

the hangovers and lazy days

the emptiness behind the

captive audience, the rapt and

awed, the onlookers, the fans

the stick figures, the empty heads

the arms that circled close, the

time

the blackness left behind.

Let’s make a little altar, but this time

let’s keep it out

where we can see it

keep the floodlights on

the spotlight keeping lit

all the things that we’ve collected

tucked away

and dusted off

on a holiday like nothing

Let’s make a little altar

from the darkness

left behind.

2016

Published January 3, 2017 by April Fox

Funny all the cracks that made your surface

interesting, once upon a time have filled in now

with dirt and grime and no amount of scrubbing

can restore them

Leonard Cohen left us blissful

mirror-gazing at each other, dancing

long and slow, until the end

until the end and we were

cavernous, and gaunt like insects, exoskeletons

the mismatched eyes were watching everything

and slit the throats

of all our memories, bled them dry and left us screaming

hey Ophelia

Please come back

home.

Mourning Dove

Published July 17, 2016 by April Fox

I found him at the top of the stairs

without a head.

It was a clean break, no sign that it had ever been there

and though his face was gone

his body lay in a pose of accusation

making me the guilty one.

I wrapped him in brown paper

and threw him into the woods

while the rain burned down my back

and ate my spine;

I could hear him in the dead leaves, singing

his wings or his still heart beating

the low bass notes of life.

Time Capsule

Published February 2, 2016 by April Fox

At the end,

you will gather your life

and if you’re lucky

it will fill the room,

hold your hand and speak to you in

furred voice,

calling in the breeze to brush away the sorrows

from your brow.

Everything else of significance will fit in your palm,

tarnished and worn

the colors faded and softened with time.

They will take these treasures home

and they will bury you instead.

baby apple

Mid January three something indecent deity

Published January 17, 2016 by April Fox

There are ghosts in every corner 

Tapping holes into their faces with their 

Broken fingernails 

This is a place where when the stars come down

They change their course and keep 

The sideways dark

Look out the light

Will make you blind

And the holes keep growing bigger

The skin around the edges chapped and raw 

The mouths below grotesque with screaming 

Never and regret

The hands of god are softly, sweetly

Masturbating to the sight. 

Vintage Christmas

Published September 6, 2015 by April Fox

I have paid a thousand hours penance

for her spun silk hair and faded blue eyes

sliced my voice on the shattered glass of fragile Christmas bulbs

golden stars and sparkling orbs, blue and red and green

and touched with glitter

in the center of something plastic, the holy parents pray

over the lifeless molded body of the baby

with no eyes.

I could never reach the top

with the icicles I threw.

In the dark, the lights throw colors at the wall

and the threads that hold the past together

rot away and die.

In Spring

Published May 19, 2015 by April Fox

In the spring,

when everything began to grow,

we sat in a field of green and yellow

spinning dreams about the future.

Yours was set in stone, and I was there

Mine was outer space and I was waving at you

far below, a thousand miles away.

In the spring,

when everything began to grow,

I counted backward days and threw up

all of my childhood

My future set in stone and yours a quickly scribbled postscript

to a tale you couldn’t write.

In the spring,

when everything began to grow,

I watched you die

counted lines etched in your jaundiced skin

and breathed the scent of giving up

with every word you spoke

I held our son and said good-bye,

your future set in stone, a gift

given to yourself.

In the spring,

when everything began to grow,

I sat in a field of green and yellow,

spinning dreams of the future

drinking coffee from a plastic cup

counting birdsongs, making pictures from the clouds

grateful, every second

for everything you left to me.

spring

January 31 2015

Published January 31, 2015 by April Fox

In my trunk there is a photograph
of me at age fifteen,
one of my daughter at three,
and my grandma’s cookie jar.

There is a bag on the seat
next to me
with bits and pieces of her life
taken from her bedroom.
I haven’t looked inside but I reached in and felt
a book, and I wonder
if the pages smell like her.

Her chair is in the wrong place.

Her bed is gone.

There are crumbs in the cookie jar, who knows how old, and still
I can feel her hands,
petal-soft
against my face
I can hear voice,
an echo
in the unfamiliar air
And I wonder if the space she left behind
will ever fill
with something else.

IMG_4876-0

Stench

Published December 5, 2014 by April Fox

Early morning, waking alone
in the cluttered nest you built
the stench of last year’s sheets and last night’s
desperation turn your stomach and the water
on the bedside stand is gone, the glass left empty
by the stranger who crept over you
shameful in your flaccid state
saliva like a spider’s web, linking you
to the soggy condom
by the pillow

There is a book you thought you’d want to read
someday
lying on the floor
dressed in dust and the fragile carcass
of an insect
starved for air

The sunlight through the broken blinds sings lies
of better things

You dreamed of childish things,
rope swings and secret hidden cans
of cheap domestic beer, Fantasia
on the TV screen

When they found you, you were hanging
like some morbid decoration
strung up in celebration
of the world you left behind
and the skin dripped off their faces
open mouths and burnt out eyes, imaginary
indignation, all
erased with your existence.

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