Tag Archives: death

She Carries The Lamb To Heaven

The Summer After

The girl is lost, in the tawny wheat of the steppes,
in the cold waters of the river washing past,
in the ruins of the city and corpses their.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, the world burned.
We hold close in the empty field in the summer after,
holding on like drowning sailors to driftwood.

The games we played are echoes in dreams
and voices and laughter half-remembered,
a phantasm of something lost.

The first kiss as we swam in the cold river.
Chasing each other through the tall wheat.
Looking up and the endless stars.

The girl is lost, and I am lost, our world burned.
The cannons and gunfire is silent for now.
The city built again.

It is the summer after, and we hold close,
her head laying upon my shoulder as she sleeps,
and I look up at stars that have never seemed so distant.

Valentine’s Day

The sky is clear and starry. There is no moon. The street is sparse. A
man. A couple. A diner at a cafe. The air is crisp. I pull my jacket
tighter. I hear footsteps behind me.
I wish I had a cigarette. I quit. She made me quit. Helena. Red hair.
Smile. Hands soft as silk. I remember them on my face.
She had survived once. So many didn’t. A shooting at school. We
thought that was it. We were safe. Footsteps.
Helena. Unchanging. Beautiful. Seventeen forever. I wish I could see
her get old. Gray. Wrinkled.
I keep this day holy. I keep it pure. One year ago. Bleeding on the
resteraunt floor. Gunshots. Her tears. What was happening?
I pass a couple. They are laughing. I look away. Wouldn’t you? I
almost remember. Not quite. Just almost. A summer day. Hands soft as silk.
First kiss. A Promise.
Footsteps are closer.
End of the street. Couple go into a shop. Man is gone. Diner leaving.
I turn.
A man. Plain. Cold. No plumes of breath. He has a gun.
Silenced shots. I fall. The man walks away.
My turn. Now I’m gone.
Stars are bright. They are cold.
Will I see her now?

Eyes Upon His Wings

The Death Angel stands in repose, eyes upon his wings

blinking open and shut in fluttering waves;

lives going away, lives just coming in.

A bright spring day, almost warm, birds singing,

and the world’s coming alive again, green overcoming grey,

but you aren’t here with me, your favorite season.

Our daughter cries in my arms, hungry or tired, and I try to

soothe her, calm her, promise her the bottle of warm milk,

and a soft song to quiet her pain.

The Smoky Mountains are green and mist covered, still an emerald

against the sapphire crown of the sky, still were dreams, ancient and cool

call me, still were we felt so close to whatever is behind the sky.

Inside, feeding our daughter her warm milk, calming her and quieting her.

A pain overcome with a sweetness, round and round even at the start.

Sorrows come and sweetness washes through, and then washes out.

And that Death Angel’s eyes blink open and shut, lives coming, lives going,

and I still feel you near, and a soft warmth with the ache and loss,

and an eye opened with our daughter’s birth. May it be sweet before that eye


An Ocean Once, Long Ago, Now Almost Dry

A ghost in this worn hoodie, blue and deep,

               An ocean once, long ago, now almost dry,

               Like finally my eyes, that she is gone and lost.


               A scent, faint, of her sweet perfume, the funk

               Of her sweat, the smell I knew holding her close,

               That was sweet too, as was her washed, in bed.


               Still a pack of smokes in the pocket, not what did

               End up killing her, just bad luck, bad day, bad shit,

               And the cigarettes are stale, just rags of wasted death.


               I wear it in this cold season, walking home on dead

               Streets and boring stores and empty skies, keeping

               Her close, feeling her spirit in fabric soaked with her life.


               But it becomes me, sweating in winter, and my scents

               Chase hers away, and the cigarettes will eventually be

               Thrown out, and it will only be me, me chasing her out.


               Even ghosts are worn down by tides and seasons and life.            

The Song He Always Sang

It’s starting to get cool at night, the first of September.

               The stars look so magnificent now all cities are dark.

               Such lights and clouds and clusters of white in the black.

               The ashes of the fire rise on the flames to touch the sky.


               She lays in her sleeping bag, Army Surplus, once her dad’s.

               The flames are hot on her face, and soothing, and so kind.

               She does not want to go into the tent yet, wants to be here.

               Watching the flames, feeling the heat, as winter comes down.


               She tries to call that song he always sang for her as a little girl.

               Tries to call the sound of his voice, the scratch of beard on her cheek.

               The nauseating smell of his aftershave. The color of his eyes, exactly.

               The feel of his arms hugging her. The roughness of his hands.


               All shadows, half formed, flickers in the darkness of her memory.

               All the pictures burned when the city fell. Memory is fickle and fades.

               She can’t put together the summer afternoon that was perfect,

               When it was just her and her dad, picnicking on the open plains.


               She sighs, and gives up trying. She gets out of the sleeping bag

               And goes inside the tent, gets back in, and through the open

               Mesh of the tent roof, she looks at the stars, countless, infinite,

               Until she levitates into the sky, and is one with every miracle.


Schrödinger’s Cat

The cat in the box, neither alive or dead, is waiting for you too look.
Neither alive nor dead, until you look, that it said in a science book.
So as the cold winds bully around the house and I shiver under my blouse
I hope that, as long as you’re not found, that your alive, not in the ground
and not frozen in the snow, after what they did all god would ever know.
If I don’t look, If I don’t see, you’re all right and well and will come back to me.
My heart is broken into shards, cast about the snow in the neighborhood yards
where you laughed and played and from we’re you ultimately strayed.
If I don’t look, if you’re not found, you’re alright, warm, safe and sound.
If I close my eyes, I can believe in a surprise, that you’ll be here, right before my eyes.

Glycerin Tears

I’m sitting on the couch of my husband’s spacious home. In here everything is still in perfect order, like he always liked. In here there is no blood. No bodies.
 The police men looked puzzled. They don’t know what to make of what I’ve just done. They wonder if it’s a malfunction. A virus. Bad processor. They can’t see that I did it because I loved him and he broke my heart.
 “Tell us again, what happened.” One of them says. I don’t look at him. My hands are in my lap, still stained with blood.
 “He said he was leaving.” I tell them. My voice wavers, with hurt and rage and bitterness. These men think it’s only a trick of programing. But I feel it. I feel it and it is real.
 “Leaving?” The police man asks.
 “Leaving.” I say. “He’d met a human woman. He said he was in love with her and he was going to marry her instead. I was just an Android Mate. Something to be tossed aside, now I was no longer needed.”
 My body is wracked with sobs. All they see is glycerin tears.
 “So.” He asks. “You killed him?”
 “Yes” I say. “Yes.”
 They ask me to stand up. The pull my arms behind me and handcuff my wrists. I am being led away. I will be de-activated and disassembled. I will die.
 I was made to love. I was made to love whoever chose me. I was made to love forever and ever. To be always faithful. But he was only human. He can do as he pleases.
 The police car pulls away. I am alone now. I will be until they shut me down. Then I shall be free.

Glass Coffin

Glass coffin in the woods, clean and sparkling, with inlaid gold.
She sleeps inside, still and dreaming and untouched by the world.
If I kiss her, the sorrows will come, and the loss, and a true death.
She sleeps, and I watch over her, adore her, keep out the wolves.
If I kiss her, there will be love and life and a true dream in waking.
I want her perfect and holy, so unlike me, so unlike me.
The days pass and swirl and stars go on and on and the moon weeps.
This life has broken me. My mind has turned on me. She is perfect.
If I kiss, there will be life, bleeding and sweet.
A kiss.

Sentry Duty

The rain and the cold, my fatigues soaked straight through.
Hours and hours until daybreak, and another solder to relieve me.

My fingers shiver, my teeth chatter, I hold my rifle close, stare into the night.
I’ve been here so long, such dreadful time, and it feels I’ll be here forever.

 Thoughts of my wife, and a happy, carefree life that is forever lost to me,
fill my head, break my heart, remind me how far I am from love and comfort.
 There are monsters out in this night, who slither and crawl to take us to hell.
Beasts who infect body, mind and soul. Who crush out all that is human and good.
 I must stay, keep the monsters out, I must persevere through this cold and bitterness.
I must stay, and not sit down, close my eyes, and let sleep and nothingness come to me.
 A monster is already in me, wrapping his tail around my mind and heart.
I must fight him, and his brethren, all those damnable things of fear.
 The monster in my head tightens his tail, squeezes all the venom to my thoughts.
The poison sours all the light in me, all the love struggling to light my dreams.
 I think of my wife, tender and loving and kind, with a quick laugh, soft smile.
She waits for me like I wait for morning, for relief and rest, to complete my duty.
 She waits for me, patient and devoted, and I must see her again, hold her again,
not let these monsters take us, take me, take this wonderful and sorrowful world.

She waits for me, my brothers depend on me, I must stay.
Fuck that monster!