A small, suffocating room, tremulous
hands held together by salt-driven tears,
lukewarm, transient voices swimming
past me, the smell of violets line
your stomach; I leave a kiss on a fireless cheek.
An open bible in the priest’s gnarled hands;
farewell prayers, pine trees, unrelenting
earth, winter sky, terrain crescendo on a
casket taken down low, an unorchestrated
sound on living bones.
A feast with nothing more than a bit of
optimism, but it comforts; reminiscent
thoughts and sorrows poured in plastic
cups, bagpipe music moves along the
skin, rising in the chest. Many nights I have
dreamt about those rooms, and the
secrets they revealed.