TABLE FOR THREE

TABLE FOR THREE

Oh child among the roses, oh press of doves,
oh presidio of fish and rosebushes
your soul is a bottle of dried salts
and a bell filled with grapes, your skin.

Ode With a Lament     Pablo Neruda

Egg-yolk yellow police tape flaps
in the morning breeze, delineates the area,
is the bold evidence left to say:
"caution, beware, a bad thing happened here"
An impromptu memorial: teddy-bears,
gaudy balloons, hand-fashioned cards
expressing heartache and love
leans haphazardly against an opening
smashed through the patio tree grove,
oh child among the roses, oh press of doves.

The staff cannot resist talking although
the place is not opening today...
"Is it true, he didn't die right away?"
And the wind may be forgiven for sobbing
as it whispers to the lilacs not to listen to them.
Anyone passing by would hear only
minutiae-like sounds, the pulls and pushes
as bits of grief and sadness circle there,
and always on the breeze, soft shushes,
oh presidio of fish and rosebushes.

There's no denying the facts as wretched
as they be, especially as your tiny soul lingers on.
How to explain to such a one that a party
just for you should end so unimaginably.
No wonder the wind cannot speak above
a whisper, nor expose, with whom lies the fault.
Does it matter now who caused your death,
who it was couldn't bring the car to a halt,
pinning you to the wall, stealing breath and life;
your soul is a bottle of dried salts.

Would there be a way to fill your Mama's
empty arms, her emptier heart—we would.
But catastrophic events such as this leave little corporeal
with which to work and the reality for us, and for you
is that now you need unfold your ephemeral wings,
and soar above us all—go, you who are without sin.
Go where you will become whole again...
Remain not where your everyness lies broken,
where birds weep, eyes grow blind, bones thin,
and a bell filled with grapes, your skin.

[a glosa]

published online at Better Than Starbucks August 2016
published online at Winning Writers April 2013