…the last sense to fade at life’s culmination.
So this is how it will be, Death,
when we finally get married?
I will not see your face when I lift your veil?
I will not hear you whisper my name?
I will not smell your breath on my face?
I will not taste the wine?
I will only feel your hand in mine,
your touch, for only as long as it takes to say,
Four-time Pushcart Prize nominee as well as Best of the Net nominee, J.R. Solonche has been publishing poetry in magazines, journals, and anthologies since the early ’70s.