Her heart is a sinking sun,
pooling patches of dried blood
on a canvas thickening
with yesterday’s paint. Tucked in
rich velvet and laid to rest
(open to public viewing)
she mourns its passing, pressing
treasured lines of scrawled script to
lips of stone, epitaph carved in
lieu of flowers. Rays of light,
the glory days of holding
and being held, protrude from
memories slashed through the frayed
places where sky meets casket’s
edge. The sun will rise again
but not today, not until
a thousand tomorrows have
burned to ashes, cremation’s
signature on cloud-sealed urn.