Elegy
       

In sun the sunburned skin sloughs off the sunburned shoulder.
Most folks believe this is the body's slow mend.

Most folks believe in the good yolk of the soul.

I believe in autopsy lingo of natural causes should be replaced
with of long-term exposure to the dim, unwavering radiation of the morning star.

The evening they burn your body,
I step into the garden and arrange a crooked line of birdbaths to skip stones across

until a bell tower tolls its eight arguments against daylight
and the skyline illuminates, ragged and unmended

like a poem turned on its side.

The evening they burn your body,
I believe I'll step into the living room and be greeted by you

or by someone who could play you in a movie.

The curtains are an aurora of earthly proportion.
You don't exist.

A flash igniting the paned glass is the silent lightning outrunning its noise.
You're on fire.

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Copyright © 2013 Jaswinder Bolina All rights reserved
from Phantom Camera
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission