The Language of Loss. Barbara Abercrombie

O as to embrace me she inclined,

      I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

      —JOHN MILTON

After Her Death

      I am trying to find the lesson

      for tomorrow. Matthew something.

      Which lectionary? I have not

      forgotten the Way, but, a little,

      the way to the Way. The trees keep whispering

      peace, peace, and the birds

      in the shallows are full of the

      bodies of small fish and are

      content. They open their wings

      so easily, and fly. So. It is still

      possible.

      I open the book

      which the strange, difficult, beautiful church

      has given me. To Matthew. Anywhere.

      —MARY OLIVER

The Sadness of Clothes

      When someone dies, the clothes are so sad. They have outlived

      their usefulness and cannot get warm and full.

      You talk to the clothes and explain that he is not coming back

      as when he showed up immaculately dressed in slacks and plaid jacket

      and had that beautiful smile on and you’d talk.

      You’d go to get something and come back and he’d be gone.

      You explain death to the clothes like that dream.

      You tell them how much you miss the spouse

      and how much you miss the pet with its little winter sweater.

      You tell the worn raincoat that if you talk about it,

      you will finally let grief out. The ancients etched the words

      for battle and victory onto their shields and then they went out

      and fought to the last breath. Words have that kind of power

      you remind the clothes that remain in the drawer, arms stubbornly

      folded across the chest, or slung across the backs of chairs,

      or hanging inside the dark closet. Do with us what you will,

      they faintly sigh, as you close the door on them.

      He is gone and no one can tell us where.

      —EMILY FRAGOS