Apollo slouches in his pew
tired from the touch of familiar strangers
who bring apple cake and baked ham
like it’s medicine to the broken hearted

the body lays in the dusty fields of early summer
working tirelessly with tractor and disc harrow spitting up the earth
teeth eating, not only dirt, but quiet flesh
without warning, there is a blood on the ground

now, the body lays cold as a river stone on the tabletop
something to be examined by the curious and the marbled eyed youth
hands cover heart, the ugly wound, the secret kept
with purple lips puckered in one last kiss

he knows the dead always stay that way
even the hyacinth dies in its season
has died a thousand times over but blossoms again
when the sun touches its hungry mouth