Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Munch’s Death in the Sick Room

Everyone’s gaze is slant,
to the ground, to the right, to the wall.
It is too much to bear. First she was sick.
The bottles of medicine sit futile on the mantel.
Bedclothes lie twisted and soiled.
Brother holds on to the wall.
Father’s grey hair points to the floor.
Sister clasps her hands and prays to a god not here.
Only you stand upright, dark circles under your eyes,
your eyes that stare straight at me.
You do not say anything with your grey lips.

Mother already attends to the corpse,
She knows this is an important thing
for the living to do, to tend to the body.

Your face, your single gaze, not in farewell, just
simple eye contact goes straight through me.

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