Their poor mothers’ white gloves on the waters. Their desperate fathers, too.
Their unborn children dressed
in little unlaced shoes
being read to from unwritten books in undecorated rooms.
Shovelful of unfathomable. Crumbling castle of could have been. So many prayers hanging from so many hooks. So many unconscious flowers engulfed in hours
swaying, saying pardon-moi, wearing
fleshy halos, breathy crowns.
And the butcher’s bloody little heaven
in a hole. The nurse unwinding and unwinding bandages upon bandages until
nothing but bandages are left.
A little gasp of laughter after that.
An hourglass washed up by the sea.
The soapy light of a late June afternoon. And the doves in the hedges
like plans for the future.
Those doves, such
gentle, nervous guests, and—so polite.
So let me ask you. Now
that we know what happened
What did they have to hide
and where did they hide it?