sitting under the willows in autumn.
Staring at the setting sun,
your eyes like celeste blue clouds,
pupils resembling little angels.
Now your grey eyes are always here,
but never really
Like crows they shift
as your tainted lips curve
up in the lamplight.
And I know its not a smile
but a resignation, a withdrawal.
Those eyes are no longer my angels.
When your father died,
your angel eyes fell to earth and shattered
And the shades of shame
that covered those betraying eyes
now hang limply from your brow.
Day after day I would look for your eyes.
Are they in the pots? On the ledge?
Hidden in the snow?
But they’ve left me this winter.
Yesterday, I buried you
in the spring rain.
No flowers, no procession.
No church or priest.
Just an empty coffin
being lowered to new ground,
your face turned towards
the other grave, waiting for him.
I didn’t mean it, son.
It was an accident.
I was an accident.
I’m sorry, son.
I woke up this morning
to find your name
on my hand.
Just your name.
No message of consolation
or release, no
smile etched into skin.
Just a name—
pressed into my palm,
A few coins where once there was a fountain.
Today, when I was uncovering the mirrors,
I found those eyes.
Put together and bluer than before.
They shimmered bright as the sky,
and as I stared into your eyes,
you were never really gone.