The Funeral Of A Friend’s Son

Through worn, chewed church pews poured

Grief, it coursed and rushed unmoored,

As if from mountains sent

As if from a deep voice of the Old Testament.

We stood, knelt, prayed, sang, offered words of comfort,

Even certainty, we mourners in black, full of holy effort,

Our hands and faces punctuations of light, candles lit,

The torn, stained hems of our understanding hung under smooth coats.