My love died last week,
I followed her coffin across the creek,
Now, she is resting in jar on my mantelpiece,
her face looking at me from that peculiar place
on the wall above my 3-year-old niece.
“Don’t touch that broomstick!” I say,
but the little devil never listens anyway.
And, so I run to her side,
and stumble in my stride,
and grab the broomstick with my arm,
Swinging it wildly to avoid doing the child harm
and as I fall to the ground,
I hear the shocking sound
Of the tumbling jar,
the remains crashing from their place,
then rising in a puff of smoke to my face.
by Michael Henrik Wynn
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