Catamite
01-24-2012, 09:17 AM
He lay surpine without any scent of death;
Instead a mouth making slow, helpless blows
Hands flailing softly as if under water,
A body turned to shades that could not be discerned.
He was dead but for the formalities
The process chuttering out the final phases
As would a sea rid itself of waves.
The final ebb suffered nightfall and thence was lost
As came the message from his daughter on the phone
-Which had rang shrilly, like a death siren in the midst of night-
That his wife had collapsed for all her strength
That the body lay cold and impersonal
And better looked the sculpture of a dead man
Than the rotting frame of a man beloved.
The morning was bristled with blessings and cooking pots
-'Well, the Lord takes as he sees fit'-
There, crying before hushed took open form,
Which seemed more just then the wanton laughter
Of yesterday: the almost smiles and the frigid serenity;
The oft silence was consolement.
Many came to the house and drank for hours
Speaking not a word to any member of the grieving,
Lest they be looked too harsh in the returning gaze.
His body was shipped off by ambulance;
He was seen off by the entire road
Neighbours having left for a moment their breakfast.
Plans were made and stories told at the kitchen table.
Instead a mouth making slow, helpless blows
Hands flailing softly as if under water,
A body turned to shades that could not be discerned.
He was dead but for the formalities
The process chuttering out the final phases
As would a sea rid itself of waves.
The final ebb suffered nightfall and thence was lost
As came the message from his daughter on the phone
-Which had rang shrilly, like a death siren in the midst of night-
That his wife had collapsed for all her strength
That the body lay cold and impersonal
And better looked the sculpture of a dead man
Than the rotting frame of a man beloved.
The morning was bristled with blessings and cooking pots
-'Well, the Lord takes as he sees fit'-
There, crying before hushed took open form,
Which seemed more just then the wanton laughter
Of yesterday: the almost smiles and the frigid serenity;
The oft silence was consolement.
Many came to the house and drank for hours
Speaking not a word to any member of the grieving,
Lest they be looked too harsh in the returning gaze.
His body was shipped off by ambulance;
He was seen off by the entire road
Neighbours having left for a moment their breakfast.
Plans were made and stories told at the kitchen table.