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From Amos White
by Max BouilletThe radiant white basket swallows
my flesh. Emersing my dark
form
marring the white with streaks
of flesh colored make-up.
I become an eclipse, the fact obscuring
the fantasy.
Above me,
ceiling fans mix flowers and
body salt
with organ music and
"Hail Marys."
Silence.
I read the flowers.
The only card ends, "...from Amos White."
I don't know an Amos White.
05/31/2003 Posted on 05/31/2003
Copyright © 2024 Max Bouillet
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Alex Smyth on 07/12/03 at 02:58 AM Very interesting, one to puzzle over... A funeral?? A wedding?? Seems bleak to me, but in another mood could perhaps be humorous... one to come back to! |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 12/31/03 at 05:15 AM Leave it to you to describe that ultimate experience as a basket. I get images of a black Amos (eclipse) present at the proceedings in a hot church... fascinating scene. Creative and imagination-bending poem. |
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