Winter 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 1 Poetry |

The Wailing Room

Always, when it seems just fine, something stirs against living steals those we least expect sometimes murders---comes in fours fully cornered, squared, unnaturally man-made tight. Creeps along skull hunting, especially those who come with criers wildly wailing their loss in deathwatch chambers. Quiet now, children. Quiet now. All our grandparents, uncles, most aunties, some cousins, three brothers---before they'd even crawled---friends, some of their kids, brothers, my one song man---all gone. Last to go my daughter-in-law's father, only a few days younger than me he was. Strong as a bull bear, least what we thought. Gone, gone. Both her grandmas, only grandpa she ever knew, all gone in a matter of short time. Gone, gone, gone, she's crying. My girl, I wish you long life. Quiet now, they'll hear you. Some of us see them walking in day, more at night, all hesitate knowing what surrounds us here. Up to the deathbed, Ravenmocking. Outside the wailing room, all of y

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