Jennifer MacPherson

Bereavement

Although the water
is more lucid
than a whispered word,
I cannot see
myself or secrets
I have carried.
I am hollow.

None will ever know how
that hollow grew in white silence
or sobbed alone in the night.
Sometimes it settled in my lungs
like a large downy bird
and I could feel wings
beat in my chest.

Now the hollow
hangs in vapor over water,
the stream
is a silken mirror,
clear and shining.
It is afternoon.
No ripples at all.

First published in Taproot