ALL AFTERNOON
by Robert W.
King
The snow, the
barber said, would make it hard
at the
graveside later that afternoon,
that far away,
streets already blurring.
I’d be the
last, he’d close the shop, he’d take
the camera,
the family not together for—
he didn’t know
how long.
As my hair got
trimmed, I thought I’d think
all afternoon
of the cemetery,
the mourners
arrived over dangerous
beautiful
roads, some final photograph,
an open tent
arched over an open grave.
Instead, I saw
the look of the dark shop
closed, its
spiral of red and white, the ribbon
of blood
curling under our skin,
stopped in its
continual returning.
~ first
published in Green Hills Literary Lantern
