Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

I Will Die in Texas

after Vallejo

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.
 
 
ahAnn 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.
 

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Categories: Poetry, Themed, When I died...

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2 replies

  1. Reblogged this on Moveo Moti Motum and commented:
    This is wonderful.

  2. I hope the funeral home’s got AC! I can just about hear the poet’s melodious voice. Beautifully done, Ann.

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