In memory of..
What will we say for hindsight
that covers the bed after stillbirth
or suicide--the implications
of a life yet unfinished, for we
cover the sheets and the faces
Our hearts still born and still living.
What will we say for the crowded
masses who come to the grave
and share their respect for the dead
it’s living we’re here for--what
will we say for them? The broken-
hearted—maimed remnants of the
ashes lying there, are they left
weeping in the small morning wake?
What will we say for them, they
close their eyes and mourn an
internal fountain welling up to
cover with a blanket the stares
and endless stains. What
Can we tell the babies, lying
in their beds when morning comes?
Noon is not our destination
as we drive up to the grave, everyone
is silent. Stillness pervades.
Lower the cable for the dear one
place them softly in the dirt.
Softness fills the pervasive air
and we leave their silence there.
