G. Greene
Singular
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There are so many
hard parts: I’m not sure the plural even applies. Perhaps the quietus of joy, the crackling static of pain, the sandpapered light, your missing scent, the fog of boredom, the mummy’s embrace of depression, the silence that rings off these walls, perhaps all of these are simply one thing now, the after. |
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Serial Killer Even serial killers do everyday things. The serial part of serial killer doesn't mean one right after the other. It's not like serial killers work an eight-hour serial killing shift with a quota to meet, or the boss asks them to work overtime because one of the other serial killers called in sick and the bodies aren't piling up. No, serial killers do their serial killing between the routine stuff. They get the groceries, then kill somebody. Restain the deck, mow the lawn, maybe a nap - then a little killing. They take vacations and when they return there's killing to do to get caught up. But I'm not like other serial killers. I'm lucky that way. I've no schedule to observe, no master to serve. I don't eat or sleep or get bored or need a change. I'm tireless, relentless, a prolific assassin of souls, not bodies, seeking my next living victim. I am grief. |
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As Morning Approaches If you’ve watched a honeyed autumn dawn pour over Boston from the eighth floor of a hospital as your love lies in the bed behind you, your shoulders quaking with stifled tears lest she wake to see what’s in your eyes, to know you believe she’s dying, with nothing left to try and you’ll not share this season again, you can learn to hate fall’s golden light in memory and recurrence. |
Editor's Note: G. Green's poetry books include, but are not limited to, Poems in a Time of Grief, which can be purchased at Indigo.
