by Megan Elmendorf
Grey is heaven groaning above;
Grey is the heart within;
Grey is the man standing here,
A woman at his side, too thin.
Thin like a kerchief is his spirit;
Thin is the woman’s too;
Thin is the rose lying there,
On a black box covered in dew.
“Due at 6 o’clock,” the son had said;
“Do bring money for taxi;” her reply;
“du Messe, Charles, 33, DOA,” the tag read,
In broken metal their son lost; they questioned “Why?”
“Why don’t we get out of the rain,” she asks;
“Why couldn’t you have met him,” he snaps;
“Why are you blaming me,” she cries,
From a feeling of guilt, perhaps?
Perhaps he is right in his anger;
Perhaps she’s overcome with dismay;
Perhaps they blame each other,
For living to see this day.
Day has dawned without their son;
Day has come with a new lack;
Day now sunk into night,
Taking them deep into the black.
Black are his sodden clothes of mourning;
Black are hers as well;
Black are their thoughts this evening,
This estranged couple, now in hell.
“Hell” they say, “is burying a child;”
“Hell: a waiting room of grief;”
“Hell,” they say, “is thinking ‘what else’,”
The life they lost: too brief.