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.