We all know the taste of our own tears
And your tears taste very much like mine
She held my hand so tightly that my fingers slept
Or maybe it was him, sitting on the other side
Who squeezed so hard
up, down, left, right, me, you, him, her, them
Somebody was singing Ave Maria
And in the echoes all those distinctions blurred with rainbow light
I stood at the podium and butchered a poem
While looking only at the coffin
My sobs rendered most words incoherent
But funerals are for grieving, not performances
To grieve forcefully, incoherently, is a potent invitation
Join me with your tears.
Two years earlier, when the spectre of death already loomed large
One composer’s contemplation of silence punctured me
With its persistent bell and an endless descent
One composer mourning a meeting that never happened
And in that moment I wondered if we ever truly meet
When all we ever hear are echoes.
flyingzumwalt 