When You’re Gone, You’re Gone by Michael Lee Johnson

When you’re gone
you’re gone,
sweet violets
blend with the roses.
Dust turns to sod.
Consciousness
becomes an acronym
for JC Cross.
Blood drops out
of your nostrils
drained,
living memories
for the living.
The cross and chain
of the rosary beads
sputters as a symbol
of hope droppings
spring rain,
nuns ponder
in full dress
seated in
at children’s
desks,
elementary,
rubbing the remains
of who knows what
or in what garden chapter it all began
what night of silence the bluebells
crossed each other
and closed their petal doors.
Crafting rosary beads.
When you’re gone
you’re gone.
Sister’s of the prayer,
the poor.

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