Good Friday dawned,
dark whispers of loss
began as a low hum
by lunch the buzzing in my ears
reached crescendo.

Priest’s spoke of blood
the radio chimed with requiem.

Whispers of an ancient grief
it coated skin like verdigris
I tried to shift it sideways
lose it on the slant of sun
yet all I heard was

your voice calling out to me.

Good Friday dawned in aftermath
of lamb’s blood, a mythical grief
that stalked the sleet strewn fields
stranger’s talked of love but it was
far too soon to heal this

dull under blow of winter
burning through my bone
leaving me paper thin
& keening.