Our Word :: Week 5 Day 1 :: {The Words of Another}

by Cassie

{Our writing prompt today was to copy, word for word, a passage written by someone else. I wrote the first poem in 1993, and I was someone else. My stepbrother committed suicide twenty-two years ago today, when he was seventeen. I was fourteen. It blew my world apart. I didn’t go to his funeral. I wrote this the following summer, fifteen, fragile, and though I didn’t know it then, I can see clearly now how I was seeking to recreate a way for a final good-bye. The second poem was written half an hour ago, by dissecting everything in the first one and stitching it back together into something new, a Frankenstein of forgiveness — for him, for me, for all of us, because the love we had for him and the love we had for each other and the love we had for ourselves was all over the ceiling and the walls for so long and we never knew how to clean it up without making an even bigger mess.

He would be forty this year. I think about him all the time. He had the kindest eyes.}

THEN.

My tears fall silently down
onto the dark jacket
laid upon the silk where
his body now rests
still, but cold
A breeze blows the flowers
a petal of a white rose
so soft, so pure
floats
softly
it lands near the dark spot
made by my
mourning tears
it seems so oddly contrasted
that white petal of life
and love
and that cold spot of
darkness and grief
I lean down and kiss the cheek
of a face so familiar,
yet so different
I whisper good-bye
and turn my head slowly
as they close the door
on his lifeless form
and lower the casket
into the blooming May ground.

NOW.

A breeze blows
the dark jacket
down upon
the silk flowers
made by my mourning.

The dark spot
of his cold body
That cold spot
of my dark grief
That white petal.

A still kiss
laid silently
on the soft petal
the blooming cheek
familiar rose face.

White life tears
Love softly tears
Near darkness floats
it lands and rests
A lifeless door.

I whisper oddly
a contrasted good-bye
where it seems so different,
my head,
now a lean and lower form.

But the May casket,
a close turn,
so slowly pure,
down,
yet onto his ground.

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