The Mourning
Up there they talk about you
late into the night, ghost
talk but it is good
by one's brothers' names
even if death has wrapped
its arms around again
the all-of-it and small-of-it
the petrified rock-of-it
the once was a tree-of-it
the hemorrhage of birth
now in a box, the weight
of a small child held.
I'm so sorry, so sorry
to the ash-bones
as if they can hear
a finely working heart
when it says remember
all that stuff
that we thought mattered?
It doesn't.
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