By Yvonne Nunn

A bottled wine matures in cellar-slots.
Soured vintage suds form underneath the rim
and, as it seethes, you sense a cork awaits
a aburst of courage soldiers learn in war.

The brain stirs questions, darkness gathers word
but dams the boil in lobes of human skulls.
The query bubbles, soaks the fact of death
and skates thin freeze on matter’s winter pond.

All knowledge buried, comrade-cells with bones,
a waste when ends of life draw near the grave.
They come; those static strums, pulsation probes
then stop, with rattle hums of life’s last breath.


2 Responses to “The Stinger”

  1. carol Says:

    wonderful write

  2. A wonderful, chillingly throught-provoking poem. I do not have the answer, but have donated my body to medical science so maybe someone can find it in whole or part through research and recycling.

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