My too-grave stone cannot stand.
Its bull’s-eye cross is tired of target duty.
Stones are such somnolent creatures —
they know nothing of the pleasures of flight.
It could topple at any time, in any wind.
There’s no telling which breath will be its last.
It rides the turf like the ship at Sutton Hoo,
waiting for the sky to cave in.
I thought I was rid of such becalming
when I traded my corpse for fire’s fey wings.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Passage to Exile
- Sacred Teachings of the Ancient Victorians
- Hedera helix
- Boneyard Dogs
- In Loving Memory
- One for Sorrow, Two for Joy
- Horror Fictions
- Curating the Dead
- Among the Brambles
- Heat Indices
- Grief Bacon
- If there were such things as ghosts
- The life of the body
- The Angel of Confession
- Death Angels