Fresh cut flowers on my bureau
scatter your breath around my room.
Each day I am astounded again
by my silence.
I have not spoken for weeks
though I have whispered angry prayers
and I have borrowed sighs from the wind.
Joy is a word rusty from neglect. I am
the Holy Mary of Remorse, lighting candles
to your absence and sending out a prayer
before snuffing out your memory
and damning you for your sins.
I stand in paraffin, my feet steadfast,
my blood coursing, dancing
beneath my pale skin.
c. Melissa K. Furbush, 2007
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