By Erich von Hungen
Death,
like a popsicle --
cold and strangely sweet.
Death,
like a pair of shoes --
starting at the bottom,
sliding up,
tightening,
tightening up.
Death,
like the strange new hairs of the old --
misplaced,
unexpected,
unwanted,
but there.
Death,
like a window --
stuck open,
stuck or broken,
letting in
what was meant to be kept away.
Death,
like the moon
whole and round and beautiful --
like all that
just going away
only because the clock says,
It is day, now. It is day.
Death,
metastasizing through
a concept, a dream.
Death,
like the ocean --
that absolutely will not give up.
Death,
like an animal's love --
no matter what you do
it stays by your side.
Death,
like tomorrow --
that word used repeatedly to say, No.
Death,
like a popsicle --
cold and strangely sweet.
Erich von Hungen currently lives in San Francisco, California. His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Write Launch, The Ravens Perch, From Whispers To Roars, Punk Noir, Not Deer Magazine, Sledgehammer, Anti-Heroin Chic and others.
He has recently launched four collections of poems: "Witness: 100 Poems For Change", "Bleeding Through: 72 Poems Of Man In Nature", "Kisses: 87 Love Poems", and "In Spite Of Contagion, 65 COVID-19 Poems". You can find him on Twitter.
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