THE ANGEL OF DEATH ORGANIZES POORLY
She made no plans for her own grave.
She liked to sketch stranger’s tombstones.
She knew the fallen from the saved.
Her dreams were dark roads, always paved
with black gems, dotted with pay phones.
They weren’t planned, but her own grave
mistakes were made. All hers. She played
at sermons but lost sins she owned
like her fall dress—the one she’d saved
for—Perfect and new. It was made
of kisses from men she’d unknown.
They had plans of their own with grave
purpose, gray faces. Almost brave,
she mastered their mouths, lost their bones
where they’d fallen. They couldn’t be saved
like coins from her phones. So she laid
them out—sheets for shrouds, tongues for stones—
and made a plan that he owned. Graves
are hollow. Fallen souls aren’t saved.
Mark J. Mitchell