Monsignor Parks

Peddling toward a marked 
grave turns the world
from golds and reds
to pale grey. 

The sky dripped the colors
of fall and washed them
away with the corpses
six feet under. 

My florescent pink bike
with sparkling streamers
squeaks to a rough stop. 

Monsignor Parks stands 
over next to the family, 
who grieves down into
the earth. 

My sister was stolen
too soon; she was too young
for dirt to be piled on
top of her. 

My bike crashes to its side
while my feet start to abuse
the pavement, rushing toward
a way of escape. 

This was all so soon,
so sudden. I should've stayed
in the funeral home, where Mommy
told me to, but I didn't. 

I saw the tear streaked faces
of family members surrounding 
that damn hole in the ground. All 
wishing they were her, wishing for
some way to get her back. 

I ran until my little lungs
started to sting, bordering the
line of safety. 

Then, I was found. Strong
arms pull me in and 
don't let go. 

My face turned red, hands 
beating against the chest of the
man who held me. 

Screams were choked by sobs,
until his warm hand pressed against
my curls - cradling my forehead into
the crook of his neck. 

Tears drained from my dark
eyes, allowing me to finally
see. 

I stare deep into the man's
white collar, like being mesmerized 
by stain glass windows.

"Little angel, Mommy's
upset. It's time to go." 

Reviews

[Kaylor Mason]

This is very good. I don't know why when there's a death of someone you love and you're young, all you can do is run with all your might. It's like trying to escape . . . what? Pain? Loss? Reality? Who knows . . . Maybe we try to escape ourselves. Life is like that sometimes . . . nice penmanship.

[Distant horizons]

nicely done. excellent account of loss.

[Philip Smith]

Wow you did it again. I feel so sad yet aware. You have a great knack for drawing me into your writing thanks.