Give up, heart,
on bringing him back
on ever again
Seeing his likeness:
pledge yourself now to abjectness,
and if you’d ask for
rest from your grief
to dying his death.
Why should I force
what custom requires
when my heart feels
like a moth-eaten shirt?
And why mourn in the
Dirt beside him,
when all my thoughts
are slime-filled pits?
Grief has broken my
body’s bearing;
why should I shatter
pitchers and cups
First
child of my mother,
death’s
angel your specter,
soon the sun
setting will turn you,
and by evening,
stones divide us
earth’s dust your shroud.
Neither splendor
nor wealth could help you
in your affliction,
neither capital nor cup.
I kissed you
your heart wouldn’t have it,
though you lay like a healthy
man asleep.
I wept,
but you wouldn’t reply,
your tongue held
from speaking.
And you slept
the sleep of forever
the Rock
Topples and pours
across His design.
They’d given you wine
in the cup of
ancient death
I’ll drink from soon.
