Dirge by Rose Aiello Morales

Spring/Summer 2016


Reach a hand inside,
there, where you find your grief,
rip and tear, bones and sinew
and the shirt in tatters, hair
and gristle, lips parted in precursor
to a wail, a note escapes.

Soft, low, moaning high, the dirge
that picks up pieces of the wind,
gravel in the grave, how it catches
in your throat, a cracked B flat
and in the distance ears will mourn.

Horn, an oboe solemn as a church
before the hymns start, priests are chanting
rites, cantors pulling at lapels, kaddish ended
and we celebrate the life that’s left, a note
turns in a key, a portal opens and the sorrow
is set free, the rest of time begins again.

Rose Aiello Morales

Rose Aiello Morales is a published poet living in Miami, Fl. Her work can be found at Facebook/Baillonneetassourdi  
and on Amazon.com