There is a Cheyenne word for the act
of preparing the mouth to speak
like the moment cloud guts open
above plains, before damnation floods
Hinged, beneath the softest decibels
Alzheimer smiles prevented our lips from moving
Our hearts stopped for
one thousandth of a second,
sisters making love to gin to begin a wake
I left vodka to tipple over tombs
and whatever did become of the broken hearted?
We burned you into little shells and stars
melted fingers into perpetual prayer,
blazed the manuscripts of our library
in memoriam, set fire to the psalm breeze
On the night Dad died
I was listening to Nick Cave
and telling a woman on the phone
we were ‘no good together’
phone silence…and then a different silence
Still together in an underground urn
cruelly, in that part of the cemetery
where the sun will just never reach
The bench, chill breeze within waist inside,
recount every footstep which carried me there,
Florence Hamilton’s marble wings – died 1885-
a lonely Victorian satellite
so far from reach of stars
A haunting, beautifully layered meditation on loss, memory, and ritual. The imagery is vivid and intimate, moving effortlessly between grief, remembrance, and fleeting moments of connection. The poem lingers like smoke, both tender and unflinching.
I genuflect to the beautiful reply and inherent kindness. Heartfelt thanks Roma. Never really been able to articulate losing them in the same week. There was a joint funeral and I was tasked with supplying the epitaph and music. They travelled to ash to the disco thrum of Abba! Mum would have loved that.