STONES FOR MICHAEL

for Michael 
the hum of the universe 
that second crescendoed 
as they beat all time 
from his body one night. 
there was no reason. 

i return home, a home now obscene 
with funerals.  words lock 
behind my tongue 
as others wail a pantomime 
of giant waves breaking 
on a beach not so far away. 

the church squats obtuse 
in the midday sun.  inside 
the dust burns circles 
wide into the halos of saints. 
i stare at my shoes 
my faith asking me who i am. 

i hold his mother's hand. 
the smiles of mourning 
are too small for skin, 
they break off inside us 
pennies lost 
from the hands of a child. 

at his wake we drink beer 
and load guns with his absence. 
when they come for us 
there will be nothing left, 
not even a hole in the air 
through which we've stepped. 

i've punched holes in wood, 
but sometimes there aren't 
enough stones to shatter 
the skinniest of windows 
that bind us by inches: 
inside or out. 

autumn.  the maple trees 
gather their bruises like drunks; 
Michael has quietly slipped 
beneath a vermilion sheet 
of leaves.  unseen, 
he holds his breath til morning.