Whose marrow now, the bone-white birch,
still remembers the weight of wings
that were never meant to keep ghosts,
only borrow them like library books,
overdue.
Come dawn, the river spits out
all our drowned names,
in perfect alphabetical order,
as if grief could be catalogued,
miming the tree.
And yet—the children still play
hopscotch on the sidewalk cracks,
counting one for sorrow, two for rain,
while the birch splits its own ribs wide,
spilling nothing, nothing at all.
The wind takes what’s left
like a librarian shelving silence,
no fines for absence, no fines,
of all our drowned names,
—Whose marrow now.
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.