The Funeral

 

I should wear my Gaia pendant

to the funeral supper

and eat bright foods.

Perhaps the stone she

holds aloft in tapered hands

will change colour like my eyes do

whenever I cry,

from gray to green as if

imperfection were washed

away by grief, and

not the reverse

which we know to be true.

Grief stains and impedes,

like seduction,

everything we do.

I should wear black and

not this carnal red

that will make Gaia

spit jeweled light despite  what

I consume.  When she makes the

sun her descant

and murmurs: ‘Who has died?’

I will answer: ‘Me.’

And she: ‘It is a lie.’

And I will see

my lavish flesh

supped upon, my fertility

not gone,

my hands pressed against sodden dirt.

 

 

Featured image The Goddess by Anastasiya Kimachenko