I’ve dearly wondered how her hair would look in gray,
since she became a golden rush of my endorphins.
The blatant noise, as through my chest, gravediggers nailed…
How soft should be my soul to leave her in a coffin?

She prayed out loud and bared the last breath to implore,
so God could stretch a minute more – to touch kids’ tresses,
to sob the heartbeats out and share a word of Lord…
A skinflint was the breath. He shoved her to embrace us,

at last, to joy the light and feel the warmth of home.
Oh, no – the dirt had snatched and stiffly wrapped the shoulders.
The silence grew in fast and whispering was done
about the fortieth – the day when dirges called her.

The time got watertight for tears and for the pain
which blocked a throat with barren words and senseless pauses.
It kept my blood as chill as wounded minds insane,
as loosen soil beneath a coverlet of roses.

I was a sandbag frayed by bullets of the past,
their traces crawled, as spiders, plotting mournful rebus.
She couldn’t find outside her final place to rest,
I left her in my eyes to welcome jointly Phoebus.

And when the soul was purified through tears and strayed
it was obscure which spirit’s good to clear the passage.
I’ve dearly wondered how her hair would look in gray,
since she became in me the angel of a presage.

24 November 2009