booksartyoume

'trauma of this repose' timothy r gates, 8/11/2008

'Death, oh, where
is thy sting?'
the prophet rhetorically cries.
the divine son screamed,
'why have you left me alone?'
i've prayed for it
tried to effect it
have affected it
still, alas,
to it's chagrin,
i'm here.
Bless the day,
i do.
Curse the same day,
not any longer.
The day is only one,
one fucking day.
Love it;
hate it,
it matters not,
it's merely another day.
Buried
grandfathers
grandmothers
younger brother
seems like younger sister,
too many friends
(what the fuck is too many?).
i still feel
Grandpa enter the room,
like when i was a boy,
he'd enter a hall of 3,000,
like a red sea pushed from the center,
we'd find each other.
stingers remains,
festering if not removed,
infected under a healed layer.
Sometimes left behind
is a bump, a little hard knot,
reminder of the trauma of this repose,
not for the other,
but for me.
Left behind.