death is

a shadow between
sponge-molded floorboards
and marble countertops,
a daffodil that’s shrunken
flattened against the ground
dismissed until dawn breaks,

the splitting of an egg
yolk running through
the little valleys onto
the stone kitchen floor
drops of yellow, like petals
and liquid sunlight spilling in.

or is it more secretive,
censored until it takes ghosts
in rows in airports – packs that
read “police ice” in bitter green –

to teach us another kind of
mourning, something as simple as
goodness can an entire field
wither?

the steamrolled shadow
blooms and stretches lazily

it wakes with the gold-
cast morning hue

gracing our headstones
amber.