Poem: Lachrymosa

Trauma Scope cover picture - Edited


After the divorce a friend

gifted me a mourning bottle,

Victorian vessel of tears –

midwives to despair.

When the tears evaporate,

mourning is over.

I threw my lachrymosa

in a fit of temper,

not ready to bloodlet

a genteel rivulet,

the broken bottle like teeth

scattered on the floor –

sadness a sharp mouth.

We no longer know

how to mourn, how to

limn condolence in jet

or wear a ribbon on the arm

like a tourniquet.

There is no woven hair,

skulls or onyx pins.

No announcements.

Imagine me in black,

my shadow thrown across

rooms in a rage.