by Ilari Pass

The story of death is in the leaving.

 

There is no sweetness here

    no shelter that’s not forced

                 no golden door, no sunset gates.

 

There are no words 

                         in a lifeless piece of legislation

                       

for your vacant body placed in the hard bed

                                of a grave, no birds to drink the cold

 

rain cupped in your open hands, which hold

          emptiness like a treasure. You apprehend no god

 

 in the closure of your eyes, which see

       nothing, always. You cannot be named

 

by hymn or howl. What have you become?

       No revenant ever tells. Let the rain

 

come down.  The shutters on the village houses

 

close.  His voice was once heard

        in your house. Your horses stand for now

 

under the distant trees. They do not forgive. 

       They do not condemn. Your body, left

 

here under this earth, will not be found.  One horse,

      wet with rain, turns and bows down, eating.