Painter, Photographer, and Writer

You Are My Epitaph

You are my epitaph
He croons into the pink conch
Of her ear, the words
Plopping like milky pearls
Into her heartpool

Here lies Jack, he hums
Swollen with bliss
Ready to die for you
Beloved husband, devoted father
(Though not your husband
Nor your children's father
Oh, no)

I die this sweet day of June
He moans, while honeysuckle
Starts to ooze and webs their limbs
Into a sun-kissed quadraped
Lying secret between the tombstones
While birds sing from treetops
And larvae twist beneath them.