The Shape of Mourning
by Michael R. Burch

The shape of mourning
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,

the bolt of cold steel
on a locker
shielding memory,

the monthly penance
of flowers,
the annual wake,

the face in the photograph
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,

the useless mower
lying forgotten
in weeds,

rings and crosses and
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.

Keywords/Tags: shape, mourning, bolt, steel, locker, memory, memories, penance, wake, keepsake, memento, rings, crosses, paraphernalia

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I don’t see you in every corner of life.
I hate that I only see you in the small things,
When somebody mentions they hate broccoli or loves chips.

(you passed that on to me you know, I think I could rival your love for chips)

When I hear someone recount a childhood story of scouts or -
When I hear bing crosby being played -
When I see an old steam train in a museum or -
When I see an old man playfully stick out his dentures at a child.

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I have to trigger the memories of you.
That I have the remind myself of who you were and what you loved,
That I think of you everyday but I’ve grown used to it.

(I’ll always remember your hands but the placement of the pale skin patches are fading)

I hate that I’m used to you being gone.
I hate that I felt closer to you when you had just left.
I noticed every small detail,
though it brought so - much - pain
little pieces of you still echoed.
a pillow you were the last one to touch,
a mug you had used the day before, a horizontally striped polo that still smelt like silvikrin and extra strong mints.

- but now your echo has gone silent and I have to go searching to find it
and it gets quieter every time.

This is where we go
when we die: into the hearts
of those who love us

8:57 PM
27/3/20

Just what I needed
just when I fell
the smoke from my wounds still rising
my body unwell

Brought back to my hometown
with  misery on my back
found what the summer was mourning
loved all the things that I lacked

I wonder if there is any consolation
in having an afterlife of any sort.

Will I wind up waiting for my enter lifetime
to end
Just to get there
Looking for a spray or a flash
A carbonic tip of your hat
That Redsox baseball cap
or the newsboy
Will I sense a vibrational intonation
that could pass for a wry yet incomprehensible
Hey Half-Pint!
or
See Ya Li'l Bit!
Just to watch you fly away from me
with all the words still in my mouth?

Will I stand there or vibrate in wave patterns
as I don't know what one does,
having waited so long
having been so patient
that that distinctively
Hello/Goodbye
You're On Your Own moment
Although shocking
would feel sadly familiar
You a Depression era baby
and I am not
Will I watch you explode into nothingness and
know that mother isn't even with you?

I don't think that I understand the ways
of
Loss.

The wind makes herself known to me
This grey Sunday
The day after love in February
She's breaking roots
My armour is cracking
My eyes drip
A cave system internal
Sits unexplored