Denim Blue Dragonfly



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

Eyes see


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 wore 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


In freezers.


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

To rest


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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