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greatpoetry2009-04-06 05:16 pm
writtenbyhand.livejournal.com) wrote in greatpoetry2009-04-06 05:16 pm
Entry tags:
Naya Valdellon - Letter
Letter
Naya Valdellon
Was she thinking: grief
is a letter you mail to yourself
once the turnstile’s been turned
x or so number of times
at the train station? The delay
is necessary, is chosen in advance
for a day like this, when she pushes
the door open into a room
made immaculate, and relatives
made inquisitive, by an infant’s
early death. The father lets out
facts one at a time: heart failure.
Two days of life. Less than one hour
for the cremation. The periods
like steel clicking into place.
She hears the footsteps of a man
who hands the ashes back
in a white envelope, to the mother
who accepts it with the calm
of a commuter holding a ticket
to a train ride that will carry her
farthest from the right address.
Naya Valdellon
Was she thinking: grief
is a letter you mail to yourself
once the turnstile’s been turned
x or so number of times
at the train station? The delay
is necessary, is chosen in advance
for a day like this, when she pushes
the door open into a room
made immaculate, and relatives
made inquisitive, by an infant’s
early death. The father lets out
facts one at a time: heart failure.
Two days of life. Less than one hour
for the cremation. The periods
like steel clicking into place.
She hears the footsteps of a man
who hands the ashes back
in a white envelope, to the mother
who accepts it with the calm
of a commuter holding a ticket
to a train ride that will carry her
farthest from the right address.