I have sat at funerals,
fidgeting like a leftover,
thinking of the rocks
so smugly immortal.
Amnesia is a poor substitute
for their grainy serenity; better
to think of what remains as gifts
—not the tired flesh
packed finally into the ground,
but the orphaned pets, conveniently
furry for easy contact, or the memories,
soft guides for the uncritical neurons
temporarily lost in their network.
Even the wounds can remind us
of the humpbacked scab,
and how its moonskinned love
sometimes heals us. But best of all
are the words, if we can find any,
crushed flat on paper
but still smelling slightly
of the sound they once had.
© 1997, 2001 Jody Azzouni