Fumbling, at a loss,
those talking, those dumb
Why he went vague:
his habit, lies unmentioned
His friends, using, jumpy in their corner.
Others that knew him but not one another.
Lovers comparing their afterglows awkwardly
in his childless parent's home.
Promiscuous, faithless,
what deity exactly that might
take him from this crowd
was unclear.
He'd been Godless, beloved.
And now dead. All of us pressed
into a hot kitchen for a funeral
with no body, no grave,
no minister, no rite.
His ashes somewhere
in an urn.
I read this over and over again, and, strangely, it helps.
ReplyDeleteThat's good, I think? Helps how? Perhaps you also knew my friend. It was a fierce loss for me. I also found it strangely helpful to write. Swimming the Quarry, which is also posted here, is a companion piece of sorts: more memories of my friend from better times. Thanks so much for reading.
DeleteI'm the doctor who dove.
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