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The Mourners & Other Poems for My Son
Headlong, we burrowed into grief,
coiling downward through hard fact
until we arrived in soft country,
laden with gracious worms
who greeted us warmly, true,
but with a tentative hold.
We told them we had expected
a lovely sea journey,
but they said, not this time, not yours.
So upward again, spiraling mightily
through layers of packed sand,
and when that was done,
Breaking the surface with command,
we sought raw light, raw air,
and slept as one.
How it's going
You asked. Well,
it's different every day,
yet with that one
sullen note playing
in the background.
Not at all a constant hell.
I rise through disbelief to task.
We minimize ourselves
in search of other,
and I can't say this
We hang in shadows
with the loss,
and I'm the mother,
journeying alone, it seems,
arriving there between,
in time, the river
Nothing important (Senryu)
I would miss seeing
these simple things--that fine spray
on morning green--all.
Just let me sleep, but not a sleep of death:
I want to know, to know, but not to ask;
Don't seek! Just grasp acceptance of last breath,
And hold that dual peace--so why a task?
Some spirit rides in tandem, yet I feel
Un-sexed by death, existing on a plane
So close to you, but no one’s at the wheel,
And moving forward, yes, against the grain!
Back to stripping self, and what I meant:
Not prurient, that sex, but feeling bare,
Say newly barren, childless, so I can’t
Just name or label this, I did it—there!
A token rush to June and wedding joy?
I’ll take that path with ragweed--found my ploy.
Morning--Gray and White
Too soon for color,
though I might fake it, you know.
But watching those wings!
It’s 67, clear at 4 a.m.,
A misty cloud is partnering the moon,
I woke to verities, that “who I am,”
Then fed my cats and birds—and called it—June.
Where was I?
Where was I?—what page?—you left us cold!
No word and nothing indicating this!
I felt those pregnant silences unfold
And saw “the child,” “why the child?” Kiss.
Can’t remember where I put that cream
Or why you didn’t answer when I called!
Your birthday near, but inwardly, my dream
Foretelling your departure; nothing solved.
Continuing this thread, I’m dusting books;
No time before with chaos swirling ‘round.
The space to finish up, yet no one looks:
You want my eyes and heart, but not a sound.
That long grass trembles in a gentle rain.
My surfaces are clean, beneath the pain.
Poetry: Kay D. Weeks
Shall We Gather at the River? By Denee Barr
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