Winter 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 1 Poetry |

The Tattered Flags of the Four Directions

1. Yellow Vibrant yellow, larger than my hand, a butterfly the color of butter slaps against my face as I step out the front door on the way to your wake. Startled by the bright attack, I swat the insect & it falls to the ground. I rub it with my foot until there is no trace of vibrant fluttering & unexpected beauty. The world goes dark.   2. Black That night… of your ultimate oversleep the cheesy Catholic priest, imperious yet wearing shorts, said, "She will not suffer her daily pain" & gave prayers of repose, commending your spirit to God & was almost done with his babble when his portable oxygen unit started making incredibly loud fart noises & I swear I thought you might rise from the dead in a fit of wild, rez-girl laughter. The image of your smile held me for a minute & then black, raging waters swept me downstrea

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