A poem about mourning.
Denim Blue Dragonfly
Heaven’s fairytale seduces even the most heartless
Damned atheist when his/her father falls
Asleep at the wheel and dies.
Futile efforts to convince oneself that “dad” would never
Be missed collapse into a blasted heath of ash.
Somehow, you mourn with devotion anyway.
Bruce and his German Clan cling to a yet stranger
Superstition. “They send butterflies and birds. Their
Through many. Look for them. You will feel
Their presence and be glad.” The whorish
Charlatán Sylvia Browne said something similiar.
I didn’t believe her either.
The morning they buried my dad,
A congregation of dragonflies
Choked the air above us. I tried
To feign strength, reading “And Death Shall
Have No Dominion.” But it did.
He is gone. I believe there is no heaven
To receive him.
He worse denim shirts and pants
When he left for work. The times
He hurt me most, he wore
Denim. He smelled of ozone
And Aquavelva, fire
And the chemicals
He is dead. I touched his cheek
Once upon the table where he
Died, second within his casket.
He was cold. There was no smell
To him at all. There was more than
Death in that shell.
It was empty.
Emptiness, palpable and almost
Tangible. I never fancied
Myself as the kind of man
That would leave things at a grave.
Occasionally, I bring him Chocolate
Pinwheels and leave them
Beside fading silk flowers
Just above the Indian motorbike
My uncle surely placed before
He left that wet, buzzing
I have screamed at his name-plate,
(we can’t afford a grave)
And cursed his name as a man
In a bathrobe from the tan, stucco
House nearby takes his vomit
Brown Dachshund by the cemetery
To piss. And what reason has
A dull blue dragonfly
Upon flowers that never knew life?
Why is it always there as I rage?
When my eyes spit and my
Breath staggers, it keeps
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