mourning by s.b.h.

An audio performance of my poem that appeared in The Outrider Review, Volume I, Issue 4: Welcome Sensibilities. Please buy (if you can) & share here: www.scoutpublishingllc.com/the-outrider-review/

Transcript:

"mourning"

one hundred and thirty three days ago,
independence day in pakistan.
i see orange and green, not moon and star.

air smells dusty,
snakeskin floor. a year has passed since
man brings pretty girl to mansion,
chokes her with diamonds. honey, isn't that the most fantastic
swimming pool you've ever seen?

It's all yours.

the flavored coconut water gurgled in my mouth,
and i was hungry. i swallowed it,
and called the police.

they asked me when i found him. if i had
just come home.
i was writing, i said, in the tower room.

i saw him. he saw me
and waved before diving in. i smiled and didn't see
the blood on his hands.

once upon a time
ophelia slit her wrists,
downed stones big as marbles in her pockets,
and dived right on in.

no, it's not all mine.

this pool has been empty for
one hundred and thirty three days.
there are too many leaves.

what better way to own something
than to die in it?

the pool guys are laughing,
orange spreading in splotches on their faces.
i hear the air and the floor
in their laughter. their squeaky feet
stomp right on in.

the water is turquoise and full of his diamonds
that i haven't worn for
one hundred and thirty three days.

the water gurgles and hits,
clean. what a photograph he made! there is nothing more
sophisticated than the slow motion of
red fanning out in butterflies.

you forget the slap of paper on paint,
the slop of pin on butterfly.

i dive to the bottom
and lick it clean.