Shelby Fletcher

A broken cup lie on the floor in pieces,

cocooned by ash—

the funeral was quick.

The sign of the cross was tossed over the coffin,

while time slowed to a stop.

Arrows of echoed coughs pierced pine pews and cotton cushions,

creating an indoor feather storm.

A podium toppled over on its own accord,

to silence speeches.

Lights went out and darkness fell,

consuming the feathers and crosses and all.

Everything was as it was—

no pause on this day or quiet arrays of birds flying silently in the sky.

They just said, “Let us continue…”