November hymnal (13)

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November hymnal (13)

No silence tonight. The light bulbs hum.
The washer in the basement sends

a thick pulse through the walls and floors.
Cats scratch carpet. Steam surges

up pipes to the radiators in the bedrooms.
When I turn everything off, grief is singing,

in the dark outside a house in my mind,
and though it’s in a foreign language,

each November I know a few more of the words.
In that song everything rhymes, leaves

pushed into a pile by the rain, my mother’s
favorite paintbrush, an old recipe typewritten

and amended with a blue Bic pen. No matter
what you try to throw in the song, it’s in perfect

harmony with grief. November night. A low
front off the coast. A bad painting of a mocking

bird by an artist we never knew. No silence.

4 thoughts on “November hymnal (13)

  1. rivrvlogr

    It wasn’t easy, but I’ve come to appreciate those times when every sound, every shade of light, takes me back, as if bringing them back.
    And those moments, themselves, aren’t always easy, but I don’t think that part of the process will ever go away.

    Reply

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