Mahler Poem by Mark R Slaughter

The jar of pickled dahlias
Glared her horrors,
Bore down from the hung shelf

As Mahler’s Ninth agonised,
Reminding me he died at fifty-one –
Fifty-bloody-one!

And I am fifty-bloody-five –
Skin death rising,
Chances of surviving dipping low

The jar caught a snatch of sun
That interrupted dimness
In its arrogance of light

Reflections blinded,
Shielding me from all the dahlias –
Death-petals –
Colourless
To grey –
Suspended in their pickle juice

I could only smell ‘em in the brain;
Were I to be insane
I’d see the joke

You see ‘tis just a poke at life
And me

Perhaps I am a
Dahlia in the jar