Sashaying Away
for Tony
That Sunday, hearing you had died,
I drifted through empty streets at dawn,
my route pulsing underfoot
at the unwanted world
set to surge around me.
Alone on a grey pavement,
one perfect rose head, inky red,
flecked with glitter, as if fallen
through sticky starlight.
A stray bloom from an abundant
bouquet for a Saturday night
celebration of wonder?
Or a parting first word from you,
sprung free from your uptight,
tweedy, ever-so-English
variety of gay,
now sashaying away
to splendour.
Aidan Coyle is originally from northwest Ireland. He now lives near Paris with his husband. A former academic, his writing has addressed the psychology of identity, religion, bereavement, and sexualities. His poems have appeared in The Belfast Review, Prole and Dust Poetry Magazine.
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