August is like a month-long cemetery—
The days are tombstones that I wander through.
So many passengers on Charon’s ferry:
My dad, whom I’ll never be equal to;
My mom, who’s up there smoking Larks in heaven;
Meir, who would have loved Cold In July;
Brother Gary, still pissed at brother Kevin;
Michal, whose loss can still make strangers cry.
Part of me likes to think that they all knowI’m thinking of them; but part of me fears
That when we die, it’s nowhere that we go,
And all who live weep self-deluding tears.
Yet weep I will—weep and believe that crying
Can banish loss with tears of love undying.
Copyright 2014 Matthew J Wells