Driving with the Dead: Poems

The Color of Loss

18 The Color of Loss for Barry and Larry It’s the dark inside a grape, a bruise, storm clouds purpling an afternoon grown cross with heat. It’s a shadow under the porch, blackberries stored in dark cellars, a pond bottom, shapes moving in the deep. It’s a moonless hollow, the underside of owl’s wing, clotted fur after screeched skirmish, two huddled shadows in a porch swing, one egg, two breaths, one soul. It’s a stain on fine linen after funeral food, dark-papered dining rooms, high ceilings, candles burned to sooty stubs. It’s an empty pillow, a tangled deathbed, the shadowed eyes of the twin who stares long into the night and waits his still half to speak. ...