Son, when I die, bury me in a beautiful place. But save the flowers. Save them for the romance, or the children in your life. If neither romance nor children appear in times here and there, buy the flowers for yourself for you were always my sunflower. Instead, give me music. Sing near my grave. Invite violins, harps and boom boxes once or twice just for fun – but yearly, when you visit (you will visit won’t you?) – just sing to me so I can see the angels turn their starry heads to listen and I will say that’s my son and you will know love is not far or found but that it is near and within you and surrounding you. quite unlike a flower.
Katie King does her best writing at golden hour in front of the window wearing nothing but a bra and earrings as the Canada geese fly past. She has been published in the Telepoem Booth, Nude Bruce Review, Tiny Spoon Literary Magazine, Narrow Chimney Reading Series Anthology, Juniper House Anthology, Wizards in Space Literary Magazine, Menteur Magazine, Thin Air Magazine and at 8 years old, Highlights Magazine.