(For Beate)

A church hall, half full, echoes
with the canter of applause;
and wicker chairs,
scraped from underneath.

The quick breath and funeral
quietness; the aching shuffle
for the door;
and the voice that over-arches:
“No, that’s . . No, that’s not what I thought. At all . . “

The curtains, stitched by the
the grey-haired and bloody-fingered long ago -
now bones, and dust,
tenants of the deep -
are heaved across. Dappled by
patches and deutchmark holes.

A boy - eight - or ten rows back
sits holding his hands
as he would his mother’s precious cup.
Ready to gag himself if what he’s seen,
might unfold through his mouth.
Uncontrollable.

“Excuse me” - someone asks;
as the lights flicker,
and the bolt is rattled.
His hands rise.

copyright,  © 2006 Moby Pomerance