Drawing to the close

of a predicted death,

with much metallic howling

at losing his animal magnetism,

his satiny skin, now brittle as paper,

glowed a luminous white

as his face melted

into the mask

of perpetual peace.


The widow, dressed in black,

Tiny yet fierce,

rustled like an old crow

as she watched

the gray caul of endless slumber

invite him to join

the nutrient cycle.


It was an icy white night

where planets seemed

to spin loose from their orbits

and sputter out

like a spent fire.

At home, in what felt

a supersized

house of pain, the widow,

deep in her own

corpselike collapse,

felt her bones reach down

into the ground

for the anchor of roots in

            This orchard of graves

            This memory minefield

            This ghostly image

On the other shore of a river

grievers cannot cross,

participating in such wonder,

so edged with mystery and

colored by knowledge

of the past not being the Past.


Brenda Mox

A weaver of words, a pirate of tales, this great-grandmother sits on the shore at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, Virginia, USA deeply digging her way to a poem or two.  She has had her pearls published in Ariel Chart, Eber and Wein Anthology, Blaze Vox, Wingless Dreamer, Neo Poet and Bewildering Stories. 

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