Sharon Anderson


Monday birthed
like a bad taste in my mouth
but I swallowed it whole
and braced for Tuesday
which mocked
my tear-stained eyes
and fed me grief
from a rusty spoon
then arched its back
and morphed
into Wednesday
its coarse hump
crowding my pain
Thursday dawned
grey as ash
cold as stone
wrapped me in wind
and pushed me on
to where Friday waited
ticking off time
like an evil metronome
a meter racing towards
I threw up my arms
tried to ward off Saturday
but it washed over me
an angry sea
that offered no hope
no escape
from the inevitable
arrival of Sunday
when I stood dismayed
at the foot of your grave
watched the red earth cover
my white roses

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