I wear scarlet to his funeral,
a beautiful floor-length affair
that flick the air like flames,
a splash of red electricity.
I swirl with the bagpipe’s skirls.
Sounds hunchbacked and keening,
drench the mourners
crushed in black,
mute and dark eyed.
I am the solitary scarlet bell.
My throat torn open,
pours out scarlet grief
splashes the sky,
stains my skin,
and smears the air with roses.