Red Camellia
Poem
Did you die by the rope, or was it fate?Neither a root nor a stem, it was
always up to them to supply a solution to your problem of ten.
Cinnamon rust on the fetid paper where your eulogy was spilled, little could be
done about the flickering lights, the cracked coffin, or the broken-down hearse.
I asked the priest for a grass cutter, but all he had was a silver spoon.
A useless weapon, for your heart was
ground into livestock, and the plant that
swaddled you bore a red camellia; a talking head who played chess with the dead.
A game that never ends, naked; afraid of what comes next.
This poem is from my poetry collection, The Maggot on Maple Street, which is available to buy on Amazon.