The shadow of a word in the bright light
on a tombstone: there is a soul here. 
The mind makes something mark the spot.
The cardinals bring color, not sorrow, 
and the flowers smile on death’s portal,
as if at a wedding. I am lag of a mother.
She has moved far beyond me, into the fissure
in which I drop my lines, not those of a fisherman,
but of a poet, kneeling by the bottomless well
called Time.  With my coffee this morning I read:
“Berryman’s readings were punctuated by keening” – 
Intense mournful wailing after a death, from the Irish, caoineadh.  
A new word for an old relief, a new word for the venting 
of that sound that left my throat a decade ago, 
that sound still undefined.

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