Amidst cries and clothes torn from the body
encircling the wooden chest where her body is lain,
instants of silence bring the hand of God, his finger
fixed upon the observer, the daughter’s daughter’s son.
At first, nothing, the peace of mind’s silence; but currents
from the Holy finger jolt the brain, shatter peace from its nucleus,
the silence temple broken, the language of God no longer abused
as thoughts begin to speak, a blue wave’s light crash upon a white beach.
Glorious lies from the archives of consciousness glint with soft light
but burn like a spark to the skin as space is kept but reticence dies,
the brown forever wrinkled skin of her face unembalmed emerges
to meet God. They go in silence and all that is left are the bones of memory.
I, the grave robber, salvage these gems, dissect them to the marrow
and show no one the findings. Only my notes are left, the marginal text
aside the equation between us and paradise -- she told us to be kind, to pray,
to believe in God, but only through the murder of His silence can they be together.