by Howie Faerstein
though only eight spaces
between them. This makes perfect sense
yet surely is absurd
given sunset, given gravity,
given that our hearts grow larger.
The number of spaces is unimportant.
Still, questions ring more clamorous
with each passing season.
Where is the next space?
How will it be filled?
And who will name it?
When we arrive at the cemetery,
grave already dug,
mounds of brown earth encircle the hole.
My brother in his suit and striped tie,
chain pendant resting on white shirt,
my brother in his coffin is lowered.
Between us only blood.
His death wish fiercer
Now the earth is shoveled
from where it came,
suffusing the space.
This makes perfect sense yet
is quite absurd,
given sunrise, given gravity,
given that the heart grows bigger.