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.
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.
