Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The Washing

The Washing


He thought about the pyre
as he soaped her hair,
the many times they had
played with the shampoo
only to end-up on the bed
caressing.  This time

it was different, her hands
were cool and her breast
had started to stiffen.
Two flocks of pigeons
crossed each other
in the sky as the bells
tolled atop the churches.

He watched them through
the bedroom window in silence
and waited for the sun to finish
going down before soaping
her cold, dead feet. 

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