(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.