The Mourner
by Stelios Mormoris
Was it lover, or brother
or impossible friend
who lies here
under the gray stone?
A single tear
reflects a sliding moon
absorbed by her black veil.
She turns
into the circular current
of the bay abutting
to smother a cry
floating away
through a dripping comb
of willow trees.
Blackbirds on the pier
consider flight,
rustling their layers
while she freezes
like alabaster
in the echo of a vestibule
circled by cameos
and heirloom stares —
whose fissures down
the disfigured faces
of stoic mothers
and grandmothers
belie the love
underneath the cool
porcelain, aquiline
noses, and cast
lacework and hair.
Bells climb.
She slaps her face
then steps down
into the canal
of mourners teeming
with private litanies.
Brittle leaves
of pin oaks
detach like dismayed
hands, and land
on her hair and cling.