you find yourself
perched on a flimsy seat
over a dunk tank of roiling recent
cold deaths –-
your husband’s the last dead-
center shot in the bull’s-eye,
his departure your welcome
into the world of suffocating
grief –- and you
do not bother
treading water
choosing
sinking
over
swimming;
no air anywhere
for the living.
and in holding your last breaths
inside your now
hollow heartless chest
you discover there
still is poetry
left.
it won’t keep you
alive
but it’s good company
until you
lose yourself and
die, too.
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