Tio's Eulogy

by Lin Flores 

 

Muscle made of every
abstract feeling, if hearts
could speak, I imagine their
lips an aorta plush full
of red plum juices.
The leaky fiber of a
too ripe fruit, ready to
burst from deep violet
skin and a pit of stress
whimpers as you, uncle,
die. Your heart rotting
you from the inside out.
Your heart the fruit of
a too late season, heart
of sick, chest of sangria
whines, and smoothers
you with all the shooting
pain. Tio, I never ate
plums with you because we
were borders apart. But
I imagine your grin
and the gore of
sweetness under your
mustache or down your
chin as you say, “Chinita,
como estas?” from
across the veil under
a fruit tree of life.

 

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