Death, a love letter
Amanda Rosas
The darkness of death comes with talons poisoned at ballpoint. Like a kind of love letter sent
before it is fully penned, ink expelled as if blood splattered, still life in mid-air.
This is death settling in the body, raw and obsequious. Plain and plaguing and disturbing as the
drunken pink of a sunrise unwanted. It would be earthlier and kinder to come as by stomp, big
drowsy boot clunks of mud sludge casted like the weight of throw nets upon us.
This is the gluttonous fang of grief striking skin. We wait like the drip of venom in empty
advent to pull a plug, knowing your mind’s scions had laid thee to eternal rest already. This
plug, the unfinished, implausible love letter. This redeye drive through the night to see the
vessel of you polite and drained.
These are the marble moments that numb and toughen like gristle.
This is dark spell of sadness petrified to bone. Our story progresses, feeling punished
yet brave. As in love and death, daily life conquers all.
Amanda Rosas is a mother, poet and teacher originally from San Antonio. She draws strength and creativity from her Mexican American roots, and from her husband and three daughters. Her poetry and essays have been published by The Latino Book Review, The Front Porch Review and Minnesota Women’s Press. by The Latino Book Review and The Front Porch Review. She dreams of being a full time writer and storyteller.