He is gone
and my heart is exposed to the cold bitter winter
cold as clay
easily shattered like the ice hanging from the headstone
of my sister's young son.
If I could cry anymore
my tears would break too.
If I could cry anymore
maybe the memory of him will quit
the hurting.
She is all swollen eyes and ashen face, my little sister
and we hold each other
holding off insanity maybe
and I look down at the blood on my hands
where her fingernails have bitten through my palms
feeling nothing
but grief.
Everyone is grief.
I notice my father standing helpless by the grave
mute
he who is the family orator on every occasion
has nothing to say
his silence is uncomfortable, like a bad taste.
The air is filled with reality meets regret
with moist gray memories
and snapshot moments
a hand full of wistful collections
transforming the faces of my nephews, his brothers
into colorless old men….
And standing here
on the extreme edge of human angst
there is no comfort
at the thought of angels.
