I Dance.

I dance in moonlight
jig time on his grave
toes kicking up the tidy mound
of freshly turned earth
midnight blanket to smother
sounds of celebration.
Cold, you say, cold.
Whisper behind your hands
grief has deranged her for a time,
perhaps forever.

No. I’ve cried my tears.
Howled and screamed,
became addicted to the storm.
Habit served me well.

Deep in silence of other nights
liquid grief slid down
without a witness
filled my ears
with distant drums of rage.

Mourners, admirers, sycophants
are gone, food properly covered,
refrigerated to correct temperatures.
The children escape with their families.
Inheritance of secrets.

You think I mourn him?
I lament my own deaths
honor bereavement of the soul
who once birthed my dreams.
Reconcile self betrayal.

In alchemy of final resting
child woman

Oh yes, I’ve wept.

So you who whisper know
I’ve slipped back to raw earth
with headstones reflecting stars
and dance in jig time
on his grave.

February 2007