the dead and buried
by Coco Jeannine
I remember laying your body to rest.
The thick scent of a pine box;
your brown eyes blinking up at me.
Brushing your hair back,
I couldn’t help but think of the clouds
we saw over the Seine—
the stars lost sight
of us behind their shroud
and we laughed.
The gods could not touch
your reflection, still it shimmers
on the water’s edge floating
away under the bridge.
You reach out and pull me under
with a moss-covered hand.
The things we have seen.
Let’s sit plucking birds
from the sky.
Let’s lean into the mouths
of wolves.
Let’s lick the jam from our fingers
and capture laughter in a bottle of
sweet red wine.
Let me crawl under you
and breathe in the scent.
Pull the strings of the stitching
holding you together.
Let me unravel in the hollow ground.
I won’t reach for the light.
About the Author
Coco is a medium-millennial with age-appropriate fixations on plants and her cat and saying she's going to work out when she is not going to. She lives in San Diego where she works as a copywriter by day and is currently finishing her MFA in poetry.