Miranda Cichy

The Undertaker

Such perfect gravity pulls him down
In swelling tremors. The undertaker sees:
the sky shakes with this threnody,
drawn out as beasts expelling pain
into the quiet. Those choking voices
twist in breaths with each slow step
of foot on stone, he knows how faces
cannot bear the call from dusty air.
Towards the night and far beyond
he shoulders sunlight's darker shade
dressed hard with loss in summer's gaze,
cheeks hollowed cold. Some man is this
who walks among his victims' friends.
Each day is splintered dark as death
while night's bell tolls on still for him,
or drags his mouth low in despair,
like a hungry force, intent on seizing,
that swallows whole its treasures.
There is nothing but the weight of the earth.