Sunday

From the heart of this sunlit cemetery

I can hear my sister crying at the stone.

Beneath her rests the body she knows like her own,

bones of certainty now broken,

muscle and veins wrapped in liturgy laced skin,

all pulled from her grasp in a single slow-motion

   fire of a Friday.

.

We came this morning to see what keepsakes

might still lie on the path,

emblems to treasure in shallow ceramic dishes by our bed.

There is assurance in these fragments,

lovely and quiet, easy to frame,

unlikely to cut as deeply as the sharp edges

   of resurrection.

.

But the grave-grass reveals nothing more

than a few fallen seeds and my wound reopens.

I weep as I pour the perfume to earth,

small homage to the shadow I have loved so well.

I sing out this devastating freedom

   my hands open and empty.

.

The groundskeeper is a stranger to me.

And yet he calls my name in a voice I have always known.