Once We Buried You

Once We Buried You

Dawn falls into its slit of light

and even though it's a miracle

the chorus of words withers 

in the windows as old as 

prayer book pages.

It’s the second day of mourning 

and people lie in uncertainty

while lightning strikes choirs 

who laugh at everyone.

I come to look at you rest 

in silence next to the procession

of permanent tidal waves

in the flower buds of your eyes.

I sprinkle water on your portrait

the third day of your posthumous party.

The food is not enough for everyone 

that devours your memory.

Plastic flowers hang on nothingness

and vague allusions accustom us to focusing

on the prayer book when lightning strikes 

and strikes until it arrives at the place 

of resignation.

To talk about memories 

that do not curse inside photos 

and goodbyes hidden between 

the lips of a veiled word

to calm the dawn.

Five days passed since your funeral 

and everything keeps repeating itself. 

Words dry up in the quiet 

light of a leaf storm.