DEATH Poem: A Letter from my grave, by Joan Johnson

I wake up with words in my ribcage
Little black bugs in damp-mangled leaves
Vowel fingers in gloves of death’s image
With nothing but black soil for sleeves
I could scream but my voice is not there
The sky has fallen and fills every crease
My bag of dreams is all turned to lost air
Everything is soaked in ooze of dark grease
I am cramped in mud Imagining your face
This is a love letter on dried lacewings and fleas
And beads made out of the sludge of this place
What were tears hardening into drops of disease
Tears turned to dried blood stuck in my eyes
I string them together now a necklace of sorrow
A shibboleth and mojo I know you will prize
Look how here forever there is a tomorrow

Author: poetryfest

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