SHIVA

The mourners sit low on worn pillows

borrowed from the old green couch,

as if wanting to be close to the ground

where they left him, he who is not there.

They finger ancient photo albums

filled with yellowed memories,

The aroma of the past pefumes the air.

People hug, hold tight to one another

needing the consolation of flesh still alive.

The mirrors are covered with black fabric

beauty and vanity have gone into exile.

No one talks loudly of him, as if voices

could awaken him and renew all the pain.

The men line up like a regiment, to pray

the Kaddish cadences play a death march.

A toddler wiggles on the floor, like a Buddha

wrestling with the joy of reincarnation.

People talk and eat and think and shudder

at the thought of their hour, and deny it.

Night enters--day three is gone, four more to go.

A life continues its long goodbye.