Today’s choice
Previous poems
Gwen Sayers
Her Funeral
Clouds spit on the coffin,
wring oily rags, splash
a woman, her violin
cased in sunken purple.
I wade with the others
through the mud clench,
she’s beyond now, until
the weight of her.
My eyes hide behind
dark. Damp pallbearers
lower her. When clods
fall, I smell Noir de Noir.
Once she’s below, skies
peel off grey sheets,
expose ancient wounds
covered by frayed crepe.
Carmine seeps above
sallow light, clotted cream
and kisses. Black wings
spread, fly to the next.
Gwen Sayers was a joint winner in Fool for Poetry Chapbook Competition. Her chapbook, Ghost Sojourn, is a Poetry Book Society Choice (2024). She is a 2025 SFPA Rhysling Award Finalist, and winner of the Magma Poetry Competition.
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