Alison Palmer

THE WORLD INSISTS IT CAN BE NOTHING

Burial-trees, essays begging God and the wind,
wilder than I ever expected—

My condolences, my condolences; your friends
form a long, tedious line—

Each palm I press against grieves as clouds do
losing their reluctant rain—

In a room filled with your photos, you don’t come
alive; sorrow never plans a good reunion—

It can’t smell like tears but it does, air heavy
with salt, over a hundred devotees—

Every thankful voice creates a gentle cadence
that almost lulls us—

Vacancy, and what falling does to a family; I
offer apologies for my apologies—