Today Grandma sinks in the seat, and smiles

at the fake trees, while the black
and brown crosses that hang over
her  shoulders as cancer calls her name underneath.

Holding the heartbeat monitor with her eyes,
the priest says "she's been cleansed, she's been cleansed,
it'll be alright, it'll be alright,

She's God's favorite."

Today in the mirror,
her
reflection removed from
her
beauty she once written with
her
lipstick, yes,

beside her
coffin, I mean bed.

the doctors notes declare
her
hope as thin as a paper cut,
the smell of fake smiles and dreamy prayers
stain the white walls, but with the families
tears run like razor-blades against the
skin, this may get better,

She still sits serenaded by silence,
baptized into a cloud of gloom.

Today it feels like a black Christmas, but with
a green moon, and red stars, and weak blue angels,

Gee, thanks, oh young Mary, for all of today.

They’ll be rockin’ in Heaven
Down St. Peter’s Gate Way.
Chuck Berry passed over,
But he still can play.

True King of Rock,
He’ll live for evermore.
And he’ll keep duck walking,
Along that golden shore.

His guitar keeps twanging,
Wah wah tlang tang tang.
Ya want a Showman?
Chuck’s still yer man.

He died at ninety.
It was very sad.
But now he’s up there,
I’m sure that God is glad.

He’ll love that Rock N Roll Music,
Chuck’s sense of humour too.
A touch of Devil also,
When he sings the blues.

So all you Saints and Angels,
You better move and hurry,
For they all want to dance with
That amazing Chuck Berry.

Paul Butters

through words,
I heal my wounds
by completely exposing them

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.