Post Mortem

For a Summer Solstice Divorce

The sun stood still. I stare its invisible roots into my stomach.

This thinking light mingles in blood. Soda bubbles tick against ice

as an ex-ray illuminates the weakness in my arm.

Its not happy hour.

I cannot hold the knife long enough for autopsy.

To dissect would only be a series of cuts and puzzling rot.

But if you ignore the corpse, you’ll follow its ghost.

The sun belts its knowing urges toward me: Know Know Know! But I don’t.

And it’s not the not-knowing of a sage. It’s knot-knowing.

A mirror concentrates perfectly - no opinions diluting truth.

I will aim my heart lake toward the sun. Is there anything clearer

than mourning light on water?