Words flicker across the room in different frequencies.
But Death is whispered the same.
Died. Morir.
The one word I did not have to practice until my lips
poured it out without choking.
Un accidente, but the parents blame the world. Friends blame God.
Because he was never there for him, they say
We are buried in silence, six feet under Prayers that sound
like Cult incantations. Bring him back. Traiganlo de regreso.
Hands don't shake like they used to.
Ghost fingers wrap around candles pouring whispers into wax
La Madre is holding her hands around a rosary,
skin tearing from sharp beads until eyes roll back into sleep.
Las Hermanas van retirarse withdrawn from a brother whose shadow
lies over them in heavy ivory
Los ojos del Padre are glossed over in hurricanes-
a whirlpool of calmness before being reminded of
a bed no longer warm with his son's body.
Dried bones will slumber in redwood beneath the hands of his Mother.
Siento tu pérdida slips past lips until it no longer feels like a Hallmark quotation
Because we really are sorry.
Words just don't press into passion like they used to
YOU ARE READING
Transcendence
PoetryI never thought to know what Transcendent meant until I met you. And you, my love, are my favorite definition.
