Death too will die, shriveled up in her dark cloak. Like a raisin, high in skies invisible to us, courted and shrunk by gravities and beings, far away.
Her lips will recede, revealing gums like antlers, stretched out as a penumbra over the solar system, and her hair will wither and drop from her scalp, rivers.
Her right eye, now yellow with age, shall plop right out, a severe monument in the Egyptian desert. Her left eye lives on after her, though, a universe, spirals of blue mucus.
Her feet turn into a soup, stars not as we know them but as we remember them, dream memories, stretched out over a trillion light years.
Her breasts she cuts off herself, obeisances to an Amazon god, while she still has the strength to do it. This flesh nourishes the beast in her heart, her child, who mourns and roils the air with groans, beneath our pines, stamping his feet.
Her balloons I keep above my house.
I will always keep her black and shining balloons above my house.
In our dominions, all things that are, are now.
Robin Wyatt Dunn writes and teaches in Los Angeles. You can find him online at www.robindunn.com
–Art by Petra
–Art by NiiCoLaZz
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