On The Death Of A Friend

Unsung: how it was, you died Unsung: how it was, you died

Unsung: 
how it was, you died 
wearing your shoes? The 
jesamins will meet you― 
in the backyard. 

The stains are unwashable; 
like pomegranates bursting 
open on my chest. The 
screams still run after me. 

How do I get you midway― 
in anonymity. I never wanted 
you to go, my make-believer. 
It was not homozygosity. 

Your face swims like 
a dragonfly on the interface 
of tears. There was no re-entry 
in the frame of life.

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

This is very beautiful and replete with such beautiful imagery. I particularly like "Your face swims like a dragonfly on the interface of tears." I imagine a dragonfly whose wings are made translucent by human tears. Try as it might, it cannot reenter the frame of life. There is such a tinge of sadness to someone having died unsung. It reminds me of when I was nineteen, discovering that my father was buried in an unmarked grave. How dishonorable it seemed for him to be buried without even his name, unsung, if you will. While I remedied that by putting a marker on his grave, the sting of that finding has never left me.