​Death

Silence is a black ride in winter's white street,
the ideal movement of an expression
on a turned face. It gathers up its wingtips, preens and broods.

I am feeling pure in its contemplation.
It has settled in the rafters of churches, in hospitals
and above our bed;
it hears confessions
in the weary look, the way the heat of guilt
rises in grief's stage whisper.

Because I love you, I leave.
No figurehead
to look on in want or pain.
I would rather stalk the hours of a dog
on its guard
than trail in the wake of your restless anger.

This is the death of the time when you knew me. Next time
starts tomorrow, at our breakfast. Plates remain full
and then, the birds will not touch
what I made for you.
Death makes its clanging assertion
that from time to time these things need to be made plain:

The evidence weighs heavy on the virgin's dress. The headlights
force her to bow her head in shame or prayer
and a quilt is folded closed.


Natalie Easton is a free-verse poet who lives in Connecticut. She believes that the soul weighs more than 21 grams and she is perpetually at work on a new chapbook. You can find her at www.natalieeaston.com