I can't recall if I've posted this one before. I may have balked as it is rather "raw" for me. It dates, as do the rest of the Elegies, from August of 2018. Revised recently.
It's time for me to pray
the Sorrowful Mysteries:
not Christ's, but yours.
I see you in the white-lined coffin:
black dress, modest silver cross
sideways on your necklace, as you lie
still and mute among the flowers.
I hear the dread silence
of your stopped breath.
I endure the loud grief-riot,
five, six, times a day,
of my chest-racking sobs.
Adam played the violin for you:
Schubert's Ave Maria.
He played it at your wake on Thursday.
He played it at your Mass on Friday.
I bawled both times.
God stole you from us.
You were God's to begin with, you say?
Then He loaned you to us
and forced us to pay you back to Him
with the extortionate interest
of our whole hearts.
took your lovely flourishing womanlife
and dashed it against the rocks
How can I possibly
pray to Him?
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 124 times
Written on 2019-03-14 at 05:33
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