Death Has Teeth
A sun bleached cow skull, picked clean of meat
adorned with white roses: cream and milk,
as though death were beautiful
as though death were white
as though death were roses
on your skull as he smashes your nose
like the fractured skull of this cow—
no eyes no tongue only bone
and flowers. You can decorate death
like this, dress him up in a white veil or
plastic wrapped package and still he will be
painful ugly undignified when
he comes for you, like the veteran now
receiving sponge baths in bed after he
shits himself. Still he will be
dark black meaningless when
he comes for you, like the void of outer space
you will never have time to explore.
Still he will be hurting empty unknown
when he comes for you. Still you will be afraid.
Paige Caine is an undergraduate junior studying Creative Writing and Biology at Bucknell university in Pennsylvania, though she is originally from Maryland.
The Ekphrastic Review
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