sitting hands around the chair, palms pushed up into the seat
cantor of hebrew high and wide tones, hushed mouths and soles moving over carpets
worn down from the sixties into the cold new age, an era of life without love
holding a gift box of sweets, proffering, (waitress personality shrugging itself hopelessly
off my shoulders even before most mourners pass through,
an incredible falsehood of uncomfortable costumes)
but she says, oh no, I’ve never been one for, but you know, Herb loves
-
a cut out of sound, a throat in agony. the widow moves forward into a shiver, rippling into
her cold hand moving out and grasping my wrist. I was about to say Herb loves
chocolate, she whispers beside my eyes, a falling past space, and I am
holding onto skin and black cloth and
I can’t do this I cannot
No comments:
Post a Comment