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Purple Flowering Grief
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We are so sad to hear about your loss,
the way it reminds us of the salt in the pie
and also because it’s Friday. Your husband
was a good man despite his dark pit.
That tranquilizer dart to the hindquarters,
cherished memories electrocuted
like Thomas Merton turning on a fan to dry off.
So many damp suicides to wade through.
How did we get here?
Thinking of you, your many mousetraps,
the derelict way you stare out the window
at all the sagging structures you used to know.
A glitch in the Godhead, love filched from clean hands,
the sprinklers ch-ch-ch all night
in the cricket sizzle as get well wishes
whirl in the wind. Your heart has sung
so many arias, so much music
wafting over mussels and candlelight
as the drawn back nature of the waiter’s hair
makes you want to draw back your defenses,
welcome the pain like a party favor,
a parting gift for so many bullseyes.
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Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been recently published or is forthcoming in Jabberwock Review, Juke Joint Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review and TriQuarterly.
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North of Oxford 