cost

what she sees most clearly
is a wide white line in the sky
stretching from end to end
more than just a horizon, but
something closer than that...
something that she owns:
her horizon...a herizon.
and as she sees the line
she thinks of him and
of how she once called him, 'mine.'
Once their hearts' soft surreal sadness
mixed with grief and made a mud
that morphed into
a recipe for catastrophe:
one part blood, two parts madness.
And though she mourns for the lies
and the love,
the numb sockets holding hazel
will not cry anymore.
Like clouds that cover a graveyard
no matter how many services,
call them funerals or memorials, or whatever,
the sky will not cry anymore,
and the clouds will not let rain
loose upon the land again.
no. never
no more showers...
Then she, like the other mourners
will disperse:
some in cars,
some in a hearse...
And as the last note of the bell
fades into the stunned
silence of a summer afternoon,
she will unlock the door
and enter the empty house.

march 2002