The end of life is a beautiful woman
beside you; her yellow self cast forth
from the yellow lamp: a buzzing
papilio yellow-robed, red hair;
dawn rising through an ocean
of translucent gold.
Your lady and legs crossed;
green needles outside combed
with cool breath
(sap fading)—
as she files her nails and draws out
the cherry color, sea breams
her fingers, touching the wheat portraits,
of Whitman? Pound? She touches
your face,
then an orange peeled
after the dried citrus of lacquer;
it rests upon your nostrils too
while the undulation of golden fins
shake the red stream.
Grinning,
she will read to you, caressing
the faces of earth,
then depart
from you, to the timeclock,
to throw her socks, washes,
wiggles in bed for warmth
giggling all throughout.
The dew slowly falls and sloshes
upon the cathedral’s crosses,
as Sunday mass arrives and leaves,
with none attending.
Your Bible is both for leisure,
commonplace: a pan of dust;
you asleep beside her.
Elvins Artiles is a writer based in Boston, Massachusetts. Engaged in an adulterous affair with life, Elvins strives after the subduing of the sublime with the few words he feels confident in showcasing. A self-proclaimed literary masochist, Elvins enjoys the celestial contempt acquired in every turning minute he gives to his writing. He hopes to make beautiful things. https://elvinsartiles.wixsite.com/website
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