Autumn In the Columbarium

Looking down, a newly inhabited niche

Mostly smaller things than my big, thick hands

like my fathers…

and this day mothers

in the free form of ashes—

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust”

or likewise, a small metal box

buried in smooth, reverently buffed stone.



Some other day the sister who ran away with the rope, noose tied,

spilled pills before the altar of paint she splashed in 

manic swirls of pitch black, violet and a drippy blood red.



This madness or steadfastness

surely touches me like shaky fingers

on a first date, or a first time, or a first last kiss-

how do we discern this from a photograph?

a still life in three dimensions rudely captured by a manic artist?



carefully intrusive dactyls pulling, squeezing out

glistening and tightly wound guts-

and as the firmament falls away

replaced by what they call the fertile loam,

here’s to being left with fear of a fact, the numbered years

of a life before skin and bone and gummy brain tissues

turned rogue in a state of dis-ease.



The garden that grew you, the warm dark place you called home

putrefied into fleshy dirt.  

But walking away, looking at my big thick hands,

Thinking of my mother, I believe

she would have wanted me to stay…







*Columbarium = a structure of vaults lined with recesses for cinerary urns.







copyright 12.1.02  -erm