A Funeral Garden

The Children of Sedlec Ossuary

01.01.2009

Soon, the black and green tide—

lilacs laid across white marble,

the last breath’s bloom,

and the last sigh’s fading hues.

Soon, the tired and naked copses—

children of November asleep

in wood-lined cradles,

beneath plaques inscribed

with celebration’s cold grammar.

Their skin sings into dust.

Once mated to linen,

once the beloved

on a morgue’s generous table,

now only the echo—

like a bell’s final toll at dusk.

This is the promise:

hesitant,

half-whispered,

never rescinded.

m.c.f.