An elegy for the remainder
I
I am consumed by ice, it's crunch, the bitter taste
of chlorine in my mouth, the cold, hard spikes which sting
my tongue and my teeth. It is Christmas, someone said,
the season for gifts, but I have nothing left; not even words.
You
You are pensive, afraid, giddy, weak, the strongest woman
with the fullest watery eyes, the weepiest voice. When we meet,
you laugh at the birds, still circling above in the unlikely heat.
What a relief, to see you smile, as if the world is all right.
He
He stretches his fingers, cracks his neck, keeps his own counsel
from pouring forth into our grief. Anger waits behind his face,
as impassive as stone, as reluctant as mice when the cat is awake.
He eats, he sleeps, he feels the unknown creep.
She
She bothers everyone. She bothers herself, the words scratched out
as well worn chalk, too well known, too well heard. Her mouth
opens and the alarm always sounds. In the quietest time she
bangs out her songs, the notes fresh, the melodies long.
The Deceased
Time was his to command, so we think, as the clock inside
ticked down, as the matters concerning him were made right
over the last week, the last day, the last hour. The last word
was brief, just like the Christ he never cared to meet.
The Circle of Life
The children know it exists in their heads, not their hearts.
A phrase for the dying, a hope for denying the immoveable end
of flesh and bone, of eyes that will dim. We repeat
the words no one believes. A litany which cannot be broken.
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