For the Dead, Untitled
The sun and earth rotate. your head turns on its pivot when you weep. the warmth drops out of the room, a dark mask pulled tight, slits for the eyes, tongue, and grief. our days slip past, film left unprinted. we move so lightly through it the dead feel ashamed for us. they watch. still, the minutes refuse to coil. blood dried on stone, winter paring the pain down to raw stumps. a deer unsteady from thirst, suddenly, at the edge of the well, your face. a ship stripped of its masts. a town sleeping under the lake, pulling itself back into the sun, rooted again in the soil. we were like you once. the white trees flowered over our heads too. birds sang in the upper branches.
The short, fragmented stanzas and minimalist line lengths create a delicate, pauses-filled rhythm that beautifully reflects the physical experience of grief. The space on the page feels almost like a tangible part of the emotion—the pauses between lines are like deep breaths, making images like ‘a dark mask / pulled tight, / slits / for the eyes, tongue, / and grief’ hit with vivid clarity. The imagery in the middle movement is truly remarkable. Comparing unlived or numb days to ‘film / left unprinted’ and noting that ‘we move so lightly through it / the dead feel ashamed for us’ is a wonderful reflection on emotional distance and trauma. It eloquently expresses what it’s like to feel like a ghost in your own life.
When you were writing this piece, did the minimalist lineation and wide spacing come naturally as the emotion unfolded, or did you find yourself editing down to those quiet, deliberate pauses in later drafts?
‘the white trees
flowered over our heads too.’
My favourite line. A stark but necessary reminder that also holds beauty. That the dead can be ashamed, perhaps envious, but made all the same mistakes in living as we do.