The lamenting la
begs elegy from dull routine,
whimpering space between laughs,
with rocking lulls.
A private exequy of heavy sighs
Long after soured flesh
has been picked
from the teeth of friends,
Broken men canopy black-laced sorrow
over your carcass,
Broken women prey menacing lullabies
for a seat touching your shrine,
or moments of weeping electricity
through your landline.
unchanging indifference over
rows of limped faces
pulled toward marbled hell
beneath their feet.
I imagine the closed-door taste
of your Eucharist from cupped hands,
with no need for a body.
Anna Dore is an English graduate at the University of Central Oklahoma. Through her work, she uses humor and free verse to express grief, loss, and experience. She lives in Oklahoma City.