by Anya Krugovoy Silver
Red bows on lamp posts,
blood clot a hibiscus in your brain,
petals spreading in your cerebral cortex.
The neurosurgeon drills a hole
in your skull to relieve the pressure,
then gouges tumors from your tissues.
I imagine your head alit with aura-
blue, rivering corona. Death exists,
but it has not yet overcome you.
The solstice gathers its lunar bonfire.
Your skull is sutured and swaddled.
You fall asleep, you wake, it's Sunday.
The second candle burns in its greens.
In memory of Ishiuan Hargrove
Last updated February 21, 2023