Conversing with the Dead Man at the Crematory
The promise I wanted to breathe in his mouth
went missing like leaves from winter
trees, like daylight hours.
At least be warm like ashes or soil
in spring.
He doesn’t answer when I ask,
Can we still walk into the cold body of love this way?
I am drunk on death these days.
More than the wine,
the broken glass on the linoleum
contains anger disguised as domestication –
an iron burns the white shirts of answers.
I want his shoes left in the hallway again.
Tonight he disappears in the shade of fire.
Silence stains the blanket, bits of bone
fall and settle in the metal tray.
The room seems empty,
as if I am no longer alive
to see the snow falling
outside the widow, I mean window.
At least be warm like night.
The part of him sparkling in my fingertips is wind.
Page(s) 45
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