In an X

Arms folded
in an X
across my chest.

A funeral pose,
beneath the roses.
Skin pricked…
holes weeping,
thorns slick from

all the bleeding.

“I’m dead,”
I thought,
as the shovels
were brought
to bare skin,
their edges cleaving.

From above,
“I’ve found him!”
Hands brushed
away the dirt
and crumbling clods.

They pulled at my
heart-crossed wrists,

“I’m here, Love.

X marks the spot.”

© CGT, 2018.

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