Anne F. Walker
Eyelids shut look sewn
by black lash threads.
Still with us was the smell of disinfectants
from the death room.
I broke when the cross cloth
covered your shut coffin.
I fell into the red crested black water
held standing only by strings of thought spun invisibly into wire tight webs by my child whom
at the back of the huge church in the Avenues.
The beautiful voiced man