[ When I speak of death, I do not mean the one ]
by Russell Evatt
When I speak of death, I do not mean the one
in the ground there, to whose funeral I wore
a red shirt because I chose not to believe
in the hint of rain, the beauty found in suffering.
I will not tell you the world is full of gods
and the promise of loss. I will not tell you
this is where the dead become saints. They
are the regret of a former lover over a promise
long ago broken: over something as simple
as an article of clothing that hadn’t been missed
until now, and is wanted, if only for a chance
to ask how things have been.