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Afterlife

 

“I’m not committed to life,” she said
and her body was ash beneath

the moon. She ate a pomegranate down

to its last seed, took a breath
and confessed.

Pumpkin seeds tasted like water now.

She often dreamed of swallowing
an entire swing

so that she might take that swaying motion with her.

But then she was gone, her dress
off-kilter, the heels scraping away,

and the moonlight was a severed man

on the nearby bushes
and hydrangeas.

 

 

Published inBlogging & PoemsMy PoemsMy Writing Challenges

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