The Color of Death and Other Poems The Color of Death

Rae Rival
unpublished
Black is not the color of death-it is fresher than that. It does not reek of disintegration, and it does not decompose. It composes itself over and over again. Eternal as the ritual of falling leaves-a silent continuation of a cycle. Its color is that of a descending sun, marking an ephemeral close. A preparation for a perforation of the liver. Death is a vulture that religiously comes to pierce and puncture a body that has come to heal itself daily. Orange I push the door open, and I let him
more » ... en, and I let him in. A body that is made up of a dining table, Six chairs, a wall clock, and an olive sofa. Of course, there is a window. Light seeps in through its curtains And makes its way to the white walls. Of course, the warm light is accepted with grace and a kind of hunger familiar to cold cements alone.
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