I am silver, hands like a terrible fish,
Death is merciless, it seeks a sacrifice,
Plaits me to a grave. The acid of its scythe
Burns, O Jesus, quicken me to a prayer;
I shut my eyes and masturbate a solemn request.
Dear God, I don’t want a pine box,
A quick rot to dumb earth, and coffin flies
Crawling into my mouth-hole,
Legs cold that roll-up like bandages;
No, I want a lined coffin couched in silk.
My bone shanks need it comfortable,
They will be lolling in a terminal sleep;
I do not want angels crying over a rapid decay.
All my life I have been poor and white,
I pray as I choke on an age, let me be peaceful
In the granite yard. God asks why? To see you
In that damned aged condition, and yet you grieve.
Your day of doom has come, my child,
Soon you will be a crock of dust in my home.
Can there be such eagerness for a comfort?
Your mind has grown feverish, you impose
Upon me like a stillborn. The sin of it all.
The tongue of your prayer is dull, fat, laborious;
Devilish person! I am numbed by your hope.
In a mercy, she plied her old umbilicus into a mass grave.
Copyright © 09/01/18 lance sheridan®