Mourning Ritual
How can he mourn what he never had,
nothing to burn or bury.
He saved some memories
in sterile packs
or so he dreamed,
but they were empty.
A dream woke him:
a cowbird’s satin glottal
kissed his cheek,
but, it was only tears.
At twilight he sat in the road,
by a doe with movie star eyes.
They gazed at each other
as she laid legs splayed,
till the sheriff came to shoot her.
Every day he searches for mourning,
face creviced,
eyes glazed,
heart brittle
as a beech leaf clinging
to a dead branch in winter.
—Presence 2017