by Bri Gregory
Bri Gregory
I wondered where death lived.
I found it ruffling seagull feathers.
I did what a child would, found a stick
to lift wing’s edges, and saw him there.
Still in his casket--silver hair,
grey wool suit, hands crossed.
I set a silver dollar in each palm
when no one watched. I had no tears.
I tucked beach glass under the wings,
dressed the beak in oyster shells,
and cried as the sun knelt behind hills
and the tide bore the body away.
I decided death lived everywhere,
and part of me was glad.
Bri Gregory was born and raised in the Salish Sea region, which inspired early creative writing pursuits. She went on to study Human Physiology and Anatomy before becoming a Psychiatrist and Public Health doctor. She now lives, writes, and works in the Seattle area.