I will die in Texas, on a day temperatures soar, 109 or 113,
a blazing hellhole of a day, unlike soft days
on the coast. I will die in Texas, perhaps on a Monday morning
like this one, mercury skyrocketing.
Yes, it will be a Monday and in the morning. As I conjure
extravagant surf, succulent pines, music of draining tidal pools
trickles my brain, and NBC’s meteorologist declares
another record-breaking high.
Yes, Annie is dead. Her pages fox, edges curl.
Her window shades blink in the sun; ceiling fan turns
in futile revolution.
Her thermometer bursts; a font of red
paints the room bloody. Annie’s heart
is a fist of dust.
Ann Howells’ work appears in Crannog, Little Patuxent Review, and Spillway, among others. She has edited Illya’s Honey for fifteen years, recently taking it digital: www.IllyasHoney.com. Her chapbooks: Black Crow in Flight (Main Street Rag, 2007) & the Rosebud Diaries (Willet, 2012). She has four Pushcart nominations.
Categories: Poetry, Themed, When I died...
Tags: Ann Howells, e-zine, ezine, hyperbole, I Will Die in Texas, longing, melancholy, melancholy hyperbole, new, poem, poet, poetry, poets, submit, writing
Reblogged this on Moveo Moti Motum and commented:
This is wonderful.
I hope the funeral home’s got AC! I can just about hear the poet’s melodious voice. Beautifully done, Ann.