Lynne Handy, “Forget-Me-Nots”

orange line


Ants ate the dead fly.
They orbited its corpse,
tore it apart
with bear-trap teeth
and bore it away.
Nothing left on the deck—
no wing tip,
not even a stain.

On my way to Dallas,
a dead man passed
in a black hearse
flying a red flag.
A priest drove behind
to tie up loose ends,
his white collar bright
in the sun.

Lunching out,
I read of a man
who overdosed.
At his memorial,
close friends mea culpa’d.
No circle of closure,
only wreaths of thyme
and forget-me-nots.

I search the café wall
for something—
Knotholes reveal
a tulip, an erect penis,
a laughing cat,
a maiden’s profile
with parted lips.


Lynne Handy, a retired library director, lives near the Fox River in northern Illinois. Her first book of poems, Spy Car, was published in 2016. Her work has also appeared in several journals and anthologies, and she has authored two novels, In the Time of Peacocks and The Untold Story of Edwina.


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