My latest five-line poem was inspired partly by my latest fiction read, and partly by my ruminations as of late about grief and how grief has a tendency to linger beyond our limits to meet it halfway.
How the Spirals Wilt
without the other two toothbrushes in the holder, I’m left
to spiral down the three empty holes, swirling, and reaching
for beauty in death, like flowers on a corpse whose nose
was allergic to their fragrance in life, or perhaps the death
in beauty, as the decay of a rose still wilts just so.