Under The Twisting Willow Poem by Shannon Walker

If cold could freeze the tears of the mourning,
Or crack the bells, and keep them from tolling;
If it all came to an end one snowy morning,
Would the wheels on the hearse also stop rolling?

Would death throw up her fat swollen belly
Into my trembling hands, or melt the snow
As it rippled across my face like jelly,
And fell over all I had ever hoped to know,

Twisting and turning, falling from the sky,
Foaming out of my television screen,
A frozen yard, pick axe, bucket of lye,
And yet that sad procession can still be seen

On the other side of the empty street,
Walking through the waning tombstones and weeds,
A smoking censer, casket, hymns, moldy concrete,
Pigeons with their jaundiced eyes, centipedes

Sifting through the dung on the parlor eaves,
And the sweetest of perfumes on the deceased;
Like anyone knows what he believes.
Just shrieve us of this absurdity priest.

I sit and listen to sirens all night,
Watching shadows in the pale white chatter,
As they flicker across the wall,
And uncoil in the fluxing electric spatter.
Now will someone please tell me
What the hell I'm seeing.