Pale Mourning
Pale Mourning
Sarah Soltis
After Luke 8
Why did you wake her
to a belly grumble,
this twelve year old with
spirit returned but head
throbbing? Could she stumble
into the kitchen or
only lie back down
on the bed where she died
and depend, again,
on other hands (ours), already
weary from wringing
and hours of weeping?
To you, she was only sleeping.
Did you deem it easy?
For you are clever.
Arriving late to greet
our hurt laughter, marching
yourself into our room of need,
brushing past us just to
take up her hand and hold
the dead girl (mine) with
your unforeseen intimacy.
Murmuring, child, child.
You must be hungry.
She nods. Ever my
pliant daughter. Caught off
guard, Iām sure. You smile.
Faintest awe awakens
over her face, pale
as the rising morning.
What now do you want
with us, Lord, we who
gathered to guffaw?
We who now can no
longer reasonably
mourn: what are we for?
Sarah Soltis
Poet & Student