#033

you were the trace
of April ether in the sky,
blooming like ripe pollen eyes
Sunday-
she lazed amongst trapeze bees.

under a watermelon sun,
i freeze, re
-freeze sorbets;
the lines are overgrown with
creeping tourmaline,
my phone has been dead ever since.

that death could be
so murderously cold
i never anticipated,
that death could touch you
wasn’t even supposed-

©Mohana Das

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11 thoughts on “#033

  1. Very effective–lots of feeling–tourmaline is one of my all time favorite words, so you hooked me there, but the entire poem is vivid and real.

  2. Howl, Howl, beyond comprehension this death, but there is a wisp of her:
    “you were the trace
    of April ether in the sky,
    blooming like ripe pollen eyes
    Sunday-
    she lazed amongst trapeze bees.”
    Cold, Cold, frozen rainbow gem, silence. POW!
    Your poem moves me.

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