The Color Of Grief Is Moist

Fatigue, deep pain in her voice
Negotiation of the details
The death, cost of services,
acknowledgement of griefs
Moist eyes of the first meeting
Moist eyes of the funeral service
The strange sheen of moisture that claims a face.

After the struggle to clebrate and bury
The woman of majestic jaw in the box
Deformed hands so deftly covered.
After the struggle to get the morning garbage out
But before first coffee
Before the pills I need to function
It strikes me in the twilight of sleep
How beautifu she is

This woman of broken voice and spirit.
Moist with the wake of one loved and taken
Moist with how final it all can be.