Phibby Venable

It was when grief turned at the waist
like a slender neck faltering
a desultory voice circling
inside my lips
What could be said of death?
A flock of geese flew overhead
A baby´s cry pierced
the sky above the mourners
It was easy to note such things
from the body of the statue
I had become
It was when grief became a stone bruise
that stayed hidden
in the sun of my palm
where waves crashed hard in blood veins
I looked stoic and calm
They said I took it well