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In the Graveyard

Conceited boy, even here, in the angels’ waiting

room, where the dead win all the beauty

contests by default, you arrived with the sun

behind you, working your counterfeit halo,

true as a tin star. It’s a fine effect. But today,

for once, you take second to the ugly

jailbreak of azaleas rioting behind us, where

I kiss you again and we linger on the bench

of a long-gone husband’s plot. Though,

if you are what I think you are, with terrible

friends in sublime places, explain to me your

cold kind of heart, unmoved by the inappropriate.

Teach me to survive you. Tell me, what kind

won’t choose these awful flowers? Who

refuses this bleating, urgent pink?

from Black BoxFind it in the library

Copyright © 2006 Erin Belieu
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.

Published in Erin Belieu Poems

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