Her Death

There was no lightning to announce
Her death, though her eyes shot wide
And clear into a sun we couldn’t see.
Freed from sight, she did not squint.

In unison our heads fell back, wailing
Like Picasso’s horse, having just lost
The quiet war. There was no exit sign
In the upper corner of the room.

Her name never flashed in lights
To celebrate the way she moved like water
Wheeling her IV, saint in a loosely tied sheet,
Old child playing a bare-assed ghost.

When she floated away, her body
A cold stone, we too were stones
Swallowed by a lost river
Rubbing us small and smooth.


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