Credit: Cross-Cultural Communications Art & Poetry Series Broadsides # 77
On Sundays, we go to attend to his grave:
The large, paper cornet foaming with flowers;
And our eyes as dry as the surrounding stones.
His smile and small darkness are vinegar
Memories stinging the cut cord of our living love.
His white cross stabs the formal grass. His photos,
Wordless elegies, inhabit my wallet.
Peter Thabit Jones © 2015
Published in VISITORS by Peter Thabit Jones, Seren Books (1986)