Funeral WakeNow and again, the parade of kisses
and mourning. Thunder raging at the autumn winds and at the first sign of human folly. Winding up like thickened blood and vowels helplessly hanging without a word. I may be marble, or made of damp wood. The shattered hymn swirls around like the cry for hope, any hope, after death. I may be without a garden or a plot of land to call my own, but I do own the hours I’ve spent digging beneath the crust, spying on the soft turf uncovered only in prayers and in conversations of the crying. I walk with these doubts as though stranded on an unpredictable slope, coiling and uncoiling as I speak, and then, I hold my breath. I heard the lies ricochet up like an island rising and sinking from corner to corner. I heard the wish to forget and the need to widen the bed of memory, sharp and just as blank as the eyes of those in shock or as a heart drained of music, calmed by nothing, not by bread, not by good fortune: This season of grief just beginning. |
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