A Grandmother Vigil
Feb 6th, 2010 | By John Grey | Category: Poetry | 157 viewsNo more married, or in love,
just an ancient fragment found beneath the sheets,
a saturated emptiness
where warmth of day bids farewell
to white of skin.
People were watching,
but there was no commitment
to their vision,
just nerves and feelings unable to connect.
What chance understanding, holding to course?
Behind the withered eyeball, what echoing voice?
Even God was hurting, writhing, struggling,
his sky washed with damaged light
overtaken by a dark tremor.
We kept vigil,
as she became more noise than flesh,
rasps, snores, belches,
teeth clapping together
like snapped mouse-traps.
This was history purging its lives,
final justice as a stab of pain,
and dying eschewing shape
for constant trembling.
We could do nothing
to bring her back,
let her go.
I sat there like a hole in her head
through which nothing of me
could pour.
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About John Grey: Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Connecticut Review, Kestrel and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Alimentum and the Great American Poetry Show. |
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