NewPoetry

Gwen Aube
For Leonie

in the procession
i mutter what i hope
is a french-sounding sorrow

merci says everyone

hi dear, i’m so sorry, i love you
i say to you, i’m so sorry for your loss
i say to your mom

the slideshow of your dad
is the same as the photo album
of my stepdad. habs jersey
instead of leafs. a different lumpy
blue-beige couch.
your dad,

already balding in long-faded film,
holding a baby which i guess is you.

squinting on a kayak, digital trees
crunching into lake saint-louis behind him.

smiling at your mom’s retirement party,
features flat in the selfie camera.

your metalhead friend says
he seems like he was so healthy
and i nod. we agree he looks kind,
which is not an easy thing to look.

an old woman who smells like feces
sits next to me. we pray
and she knows every word.
we stand up and sit down
and when she does either
the stench is renewed.
i love her on your behalf
and also, i suppose,
on my own.

Christ is the only word
which reaches me,

the only other english words:
Time To Say Goodbye

i think the priest sounds like Terminator
when he says it.         i am ashamed
when my incomprehension begets irony.

it’s the name of a song, though,
and i remember it, must have been played
at someone’s funeral—Brian’s?
or Uncle Ed’s, maybe.

it is Mother’s Day.
after this i will have to call my Mom

i was thinking about leaving my girlfriend
and i admit that at your Dad’s funeral
i mostly thought about that.

but when they have you light a candle
i join the mourning chorus.

after, we eat food and you laugh a lot.
you are wearing your ‘trad wife dress’
the blue of morning glories.

i’ve never seen you in black—
we all feel relief we don’t have to.

there is laughter at the table now,
jokes in english for my benefit.
but i am distracted.

i can’t stop looking at everyone
who ever loved your father.