The Sexton

Your fingers paused, 

tarantulas crawling haphazardly across a wind-swept dune

before deciding their course - 

tumbleweeds toss themselves nonchalantly toward a slim horizon.

The coroner was on call, awaiting a final word

from the death-administering doctor who constantly checked your pulse

for signs of life. You denied him his due,

wretched as he was about his cold hands, 

his rank breath as he bent over your soon-to-be corpse.

You were still, perceiving the hollow pains of labor, 

not yet pregnant, but expecting. Your breathing was shallow,

diving into the depths of the surge; doomed, still hopeful

that the saving would be yours to savor.

You spilled ink in shades of democracy, 

your politics uncertain.

You sang in your sleep, unaware.

You martyred your self, unbecoming what you once were,

what you never would be again.

How you trembled, wise and unknowing, 

dipped in dripping wax of burnt candles.

Your silhouette carved itself into shards of gray light.

You conjured the brutal beast from shadows, 

sure you could tame his ferocity.

Your fingers hovered, 

crawling sideways like a crab 

that once drifted on a wild tide, lost all direction,

but still felt the beckoning of a darker breeze.