The Sweeping Night Black Coat of Grief

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I am wearing the sweeping night black coat of grief 
today
Which feels at once
Custom made
And ill-fitting
But like it or not
It is part of 
My wardrobe
For now.

A high school friend
And 
A cousin
Have perished.

The nautical winds
Have been chosen to
Carry their memories
Like 
pallbearers
Who will march side by side
with the purpose of soldiers 
Whose boots are made of 
clouds
As those of us who mourn
sift through
the  damage
In search of
Our son 
Our daughter
Our dad
Our mom
Our friend
Who lie now
Somewhere 
beneath 
the ruins
Of the
Great hereafter
Which is
The scorched dead earth
Of the broken heart
Where color
Cannot be
Calibrated
Even by
the ferrule belted
hog’s hair bristles
Of the mind’s eye brush.

All that remains on the
Canvas now
Is the grey scale of death
Where somewhere,
layers below
 the luster of final choices
Lies the secrets of pentimento;
The earlier traces of 
Their original intent
Which is the beginning of all our stories
Most of which
Never quite work out
The way that we had planned
And are always left
Unfinished 
Like the ancient scrolls 
of the Talmud itself.

 In this period
Of unbearable 
missing
It is our job to 
pour over the words 
of their sacred writ
Guided by the sanctity
Of our own pure breath
In order to understand
The story of who they were
And most importantly 
Who they wanted us to become
Until the sweeping 
night black
Coat of grief
Is finally replaced by the
Invisible
outstretched
 arms 
of who we lost
Who will love us
Every bit as much as we love them

For as long as forever allows.



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