We gathered round and peered.
The husband said, ‘It’s deep,’
I nodded in agreement.
‘It’s deep so I can fit on top.’
I backed away to give
him space for thought. A moment’s
silence, and then, amen,
the hole was filled with prayer.
Leaving, I noticed that
his arms were full of nothing,
as was his car, and home,
his sentences left…
Sometimes the nothing hurts,
but not always. Sometimes
it takes familiar shape,
its contours reassuring.
I haven’t posted a poem for a while, partly because I’ve been distracted with other things, and partly because I’ve been grappling with this one. It started off as a poem about the importance of giving others space to be, but ended up as something else. I worry it’s a little glib, I hope not, but I don’t think I can take it any further right now.
(16.07.23)
© Ben Quant 2023
Photo by Valentin Lacoste on Unsplash
Ode for the Day 
I don’t think it’s glib Ben, I felt it quite powerfully, it’s almost like a flash fiction story. I find poems that deal with death comforting, the last verse felt particularly comforting to me.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, appreciated. Thankfully this is not a place I’ve often found myself in, and so the last thing I want to do is belittle others’ experiences or feelings, especially as this grew out of a funeral I took recently. It started life as something more akin to a prose poem, which might explain your flash-fiction impression, but morphed back into a more traditional form over time.
LikeLike