INHERITANCE
(Loving Son, Beloved Brother)

I am white
in every sense of the word-
be it foul, be it pure, be it
Snow.
And I am blank
as the page, although
I keep dreaming of your
Blood
And how your body must have
Lurched-
sickeningly, slack-jawed-
as you were wheeled between the pews
on Saturday at Church.

And our flowers there were
White-and the cloth that
covered you-
Did they deflect the emptiness
we still feel-or the love
we refused to give?

I still feel sick,
Sometimes.

And do you now shine
with the Brilliance of eighty small grains
of Peruvian sand?-Or
have you dissolved like salt in water-
tears from our eyes-
the last white mist to settle
In a hellish, black void?

 

Copyright © Steph Frey, 2006. All Rights Reserved.

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