This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

We Sit

June 9 2008

When there is a death in the family

or death takes its time,

we keep our questions to ourselves

clasp each other’s hands

nod solemnly.

This is what we do

with all the calamities.

We come bearing casseroles.

We sit,

knitting needles clicking

the tick

of a mantle clock.

Others may talk

may keen and wail and tear out their hair

and debate the metaphysics of tragedy.

But we are content

with silence,

comforted to know they will come.

And the warmth of familiar bodies

is enough,

holding us up

as we sleep-walk through

our private sorrows.

The colour of mourning is black

unadorned,

and the sound is small-talk

about recipes, and weather.

We are grateful for those who sit,

we welcome this pause

their taciturn presence.

Plenty of time, later

to wrestle with God.