Emily Winters                                                                                                         

“Can you Feel the Rain?”

Doff your hat

As the funeral passes

Wave to the corpses

Let’s put on a show.

And to all the passerby

A somber occasion

Ebony ties and paper-clipped faces

To bar smiles from pouring forth.

Drizzle wine

Holy water and

Grins of hell-hounds under

Umbrellas.

Bask in the uniformity

Your pseudonym is

Death

Your hands

Caked with flour

Sidewalk chalk in creases

Of freshly pressed dresses

And tiny sandwiches

Music box dancers

Twirling in this masquerade

Along with me and you.

But who are you?

And who

Am I

And who’s in there?

(The fine penny-jar coffin

Puppet with the million dollar wages

The hood ornament fixed to the

Roof of the casket)

But can he/she hear

The rain as it comes slinking down

A precursor

A funeral staple

Although we all long for

Sunny days.

But can they feel the rain?

Upon their chilled skin

Parlor white cheeks

With painted on rouge

(They forgot a spot in their haste.)

Attempts to make the dead

Feel (alive)

But no-one looks

That real.

Stretching arms of

Willow-thin women

They all look strangers to me

And you,

You were the only one

The only one who knew me

Saw me

And I long to echo your breaths

Under a pregnant sky

As stars peep into our window

And comets soar past

Open doors.

But the world

Lacks so much

Imagination

Yet it’s hidden

Slumbering in the rafters

Snoozing in our bones.

It aches me

All over

To think of you

Gone

But

The stars are just stars

And the withe-like women

Gathered in a row

To mourn the pauper’s grave

Shade the unmarked tombstone

Blank as the faces

That pass me in waking dreams

With interlocked fingers

High above our heads –

But can you hear the rain

Beneath the ground

In your bed?

I can’t feel the teardrops

As they melt on burning skin.

I can’t hear the birds

As they circle overheard – 
  
I know,
 love, 
 see,

   nothing –

Now that you are dead.