After the Funeral

by Sairah Ahsan

I wrote an ode to the dust motes kicked up
like the smoke of her body. O light and
pixie-ish things, disturbing the still of
the air and mind. Giving us leave to
crack the silence. Gifting us the salt to
cry with. O catching of grief in my throat:
an excuse for the broken voice choking
up the weakness settled in my bones. O
feckless fibers in the air! Once caressed
skin, now shed and spread all over the room.
On parting curtains, stray strings from the weave
are lost, leave the ground soft, trapping the scent
of someone with us only weeks ago.