7 Days

7 Days

On the first day of your death,
I will not cry, or look to the door, expecting you to enter.
I will take a key and lock my memory tight.
On the second day of your death,
I will walk weakly to the kitchen and eat alone.
I will swallow whole, without the strength to chew, and the food will cut my throat.
On the third day of your death,
your song will trickle through the air as I drive along an empty twilight road;
your voice will whisper softly to its tune from the base of my spine.
On the fourth day of your death,
my face will fill with blood, turn soft from tears,
my tongue will taste of liquor.
On the fifth day of your death,
my hair will fall from my head in clumps at my feet;
my nails will crack and fall from my toes.
On the sixth day of your death,
I will pray like my grandmother, reaching to remember you:
I will call across the void.
On the seventh day of your death,
I will sleep. I will dream your smiling face. I will toss and cry your memory
onto my pillow.
My toes will twist beneath your quilt and I will feel your kiss,
light above my brow.

Silence

In quiet words
a silent roar
rises up beneath the clouds;
That silence sees
as silence does
cannot be heard aloud.
It quells the air and stills the fire that started all the violence;
And stitches the tear and cures the wear
and fills the rest with
Silence.