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Cushioned by a Wave

Water filled the house
when she died. Cardinals cooed to her
through glass while the basement drowned.
I swear her face blurred, 
her head falling as if cushioned
by a small wave. Teacups and lungs
became weightless. Pillows, the sofa,
and her glasses hovered
around her as she rose toward
the ceiling, nose bumping plaster.
I watched her float past in a dress
like a funeral of wet branches.
The windows leaked,
siding bulged under such restraint.
Silence pushed against her eardrums,
quieted the cold indoors.
As if loneliness were an absolute
discovery. Her arms drifted
from her sides, dreaming fish
poured from her pockets.

Posted 01/05/15
This poem originally appeared in Bear Review 1.1.
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