The Key by Verian Thomas
(photos
by the author)
THE
STRANGEST FEELING
hit unexpectedly,
a sucker punch
with raw
tattoo knuckles
spelling
out your death.
It was
a cat drowning sack
of a hundred
degrees of loss,
dropped
with a blue brick.
Tower
block collapsing
into a
smoking electric chair,
fingers
fumbling numbers.
No reply
from the disconnected,
mobile
account terminated
with a
detached key press.
Ravens
gathered silently
Inside
the funeral pyre,
Putting
out the flames.
GRAND
ORPHAN
At my
Grandfather's funeral
the grandsons
were to carry his coffin
from the
hearse
to the
grave.
There
were seven of us.
I was
left on the corner
at the
back
barely
touching the wood.
An outsider.
Several
years later
my Grandmother
died.
Five grandsons
were there as
the hearse
driver asked,
How many
are carrying the coffin?
One of
my cousins replied, four.
This time
my fingers
never
touched wood.
The outsider.
At some
point
I will
be the insider
and they
can carry me.