Wednesday, April 18, 2012

In memory: Andrew Kuntz 1985 - 2007

Little comfort in Angels

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


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.

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