The Cross-Country Mourner’s Kaddish

by Sarah Rosenthal

I bet you taste like bad news on a Sunday morning:
cold, crisp, and quiet.
You’re the feeling of shoes on feet too early,
the walk around the block,
the shake-it-off.
 
Somewhere your body lies bent in
grief’s primal trigonometry: a heart, a fist, a dinner roll.
 
Let me be your quiver,                    shoulder-perched,
attached not like wings,
but like the Sunday morning guest with
dragon’s breath
and coffee cake.
 
You are not alone.
I throw a stone          like you will throw a stone.
I’ll murmur the prayer you never thought you’d say:
you think there’ll never be words
or enough words
or a word for
he died            and I wasn’t ready or
one day           I’ll leave here or
thank you       it goes.