Obituary
by C. E.
Laine
There was no picture
in the press that day.
I imagine you blue veined,
clothes peeled like crawfish,
your tiny, slick mouth
a new bloom, opened
and exactly that quiet-
your laughter flowing
down the drain in a tornado
made of water and breath
small, just like you- but
big enough to suck up
the shiny red tricycle
and candy coated lips
you can't have, now
From the forthcoming book, The
Weight of Dust, by C. E. Laine.
 
You can
read more poetry at Celaine and This Poet Girl.
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