Nora

Now that life is over,
the bed is a symbol of gratitude,
and water no longer defines
bones or flesh.

The stillness of the jaw
opens our mouths wide,
but words cannot erupt.
The screaming pots
are quiet.

Tears and howls
are deafened.
Legs are hard, pale,
visible columns
no longer sustaining us,
nor predicting our steps.

White sheets, heavy blankets—
the marble that dresses
the sad, late arrivals.
broken bones, mutilations
will be fixed
with long sleeves,

Wounds dry,
revealing debris,
the murderer,
their friends.
Age is an almanack:
days numbered,
months memorised.
No smile, no touch
will awaken us—
awaken you.

Trees governed by grief
will hide.
the clouds will
re-enter for a second time
your sockets, your
eardrums and leave

The sky is hollow now
that life is over.

Bring me my Nora, my child.
We had her after seven years—
my light.
She lies buried
beneath the rubble.