Only The Emptiness

With civilized tones we said good-bye,
as his face drained white
his still fingers chilled.
It was a hard labor
his leave-taking, punctuated
by lung fluid gurgling,
eyes rolled upward,
breath stopping, pausing long.

We sat vigil and held his hand all night.

Still the stomach growls, eyes grow heavy,
the crematorium must be paid.
I whisper his name,
feel no answer, sense no presence
of spirit, as some people do.
Only the emptiness.

Another poem written using this exercise, and built with Jane Kenyon’s The Blue Bowl as scaffold.