12-08-2014, 10:48 PM
MourningÂ
Her fragile keen, so felt, so slow, so rude,
desists upon my entering the room.
Like a death at a parade, my steps on grief intrude;
like scissors on a butterfly they move.
I wish she would lament as mothers do,
terribly, instead of cooing to herself,
instead of refusing to look around for me,
losing sight of her grief instead.
I crushed a junebug to guts and tatters once.
Its wings and legs came unglued. Puzzlingly,
it'd ceased to be,
And, overcome with distress, I buried her
and chalked "June" on a rock with a rock,
and cried desperately. O, weary woman, too,
cry and cry and cry til your eyes turn blue.
Her fragile keen, so felt, so slow, so rude,
desists upon my entering the room.
Like a death at a parade, my steps on grief intrude;
like scissors on a butterfly they move.
I wish she would lament as mothers do,
terribly, instead of cooing to herself,
instead of refusing to look around for me,
losing sight of her grief instead.
I crushed a junebug to guts and tatters once.
Its wings and legs came unglued. Puzzlingly,
it'd ceased to be,
And, overcome with distress, I buried her
and chalked "June" on a rock with a rock,
and cried desperately. O, weary woman, too,
cry and cry and cry til your eyes turn blue.
A yak is normal.