Dredged from a burial ground, what's left of his aged body in
stone is torso, one leg and arm, a noseless face with sunken eyes and
down-turned mouth. He would have leaned his weight on a cane as he
mourned his wife recumbent, dead, but she is gone. Even his staff is
broken. What he depicts is how the living felt about their dead, the
marble ending that waits for all.
If I stand close enough he stares at me, but I'm not a missing
spouse, and I must leave to walk the streets where a woman muffled in
collared coat might be staring beyond her stride to a child she never
had or lover who will never unlock their door again.
Let me lean tonight on elbows over a glass of cabernet, see the
reflection of your face in a polished spoon. Candle flames pulse with
each breath of our passing words. Let's conspire to make such
fragments come together when we lie down in the ending of this day,