POSTMORTEM

There she is, in the waking.

Quiet sputter. Quiet heart.

Miles of memory hang

like tinsel on a dozen ribs.

Beneath the stillness

blows a pink wind.

The crying born in summer,

in a dirty street, bug-lit

on a small skinned knee. 

Baby fat & red, runny nose.

The crying stopped in a bedroom,

in a limp blue blanket. One hand

on a husband, one on the heart.

At least the husband was there.

At least there was love 

like a mug in December. 

Warm waiting. Quick snow.

Meghan Tanaka is from Jackson, MS. She is a recent graduate of the University of Mississippi, where she studied English and philosophy. She enjoys walking her dog and eating cake.

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