Sunday, April 15, 2012
What grief would be exempt
to such luxurious pain. My
fingerprints on the sides of the bottle,
stuck to the wasted drops
of Tennessee honey
that ran with purpose from me.
A baby blanket at rest on my lap
cools me as sorrow floats.
I resign my grasp on southern comforts
and rub notes into the hospital hat
you were born into. I read
again the empty pulse that
devoured my faith and ran mad
around my thoughts. The final swig;
a swig of death. It kills the bottle
just as the sight of a tiny coffin
kills what's left of my tiny heart.