Love Poem PAD April 7th, 2015

On the anniversary of your death,

it rains­. Wet mouths touch

my cheek, and the lips are cool,

not cold like when I kissed

yours the last time–– a smile

stretched by the undertaker,

your one crooked front tooth

concealed under lips made up

with color, but cool as damp

blossoms that drop

from the cherry tree and stick

to the pavement before dissolving.

Kim King © 2015


About k2king

Poeming to save myself
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