No one came to me with questions and, really, who would ask a stone?
Yet I could see their eyes roll white like cows with swollen udders,
crying for sure hands as they came and went, seeking any clue
to the mystery of why I was moved and he was gone.
If they had caught their breath and listened, I would have told them that
since the first third day, when the waters were gathered into one place
and the dry land appeared, I have felt the roll and tumble of creation
and like no other I know the thrum of life and its absence’ hush.
I’d have said that as sentry to a grave I expected no more than silence,
for the bones that enter stay still ‘til another’s are brought and those
removed, yet in the quiet hours, I’d say, when night grew thin
and purpled the dawn on the second third day,
I felt my cold back warm, the air stir, and in that bleak hollow behind me
a heart thumped, gaining rhythm as slack lungs shuddered and filled.
What could I do, I’d ask, but roll away? It was never my place
to hold the living among the dead.
© Dana Hughes 4.27.17