After
Funereal sky, bloated river; stifling.
Lost sheep mar near fields, bleating mournfully.
Weighs heavily, this filial duty.
Frankly suffocating. Gather her up.
Dead crow, flat, gross underneath. Spit at it.
Must make ado; toss the ashes and go.
Her porch light was on the night Jesus came.
And now there's no one here to bring me home.
Copyright © Barrett Yandell | Year Posted 2014
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