The wood of the casket sings a dirge
It is lost to us, the light. In the cathedral
where the windows tint it all neon
reds and greens. Making a mockery
of shadow. You know when you leave,
the songs of the casket wood will cut
you open and leave you a revenant. Come,
closer to it, and hear what it really sings.
You can kiss it all you want, but it
will only make more splinters. Curling
your lips shut. One in the palm you
touched it with. The other in your nails
you're gripping with. You're gripping too
hard. They don't teach you how to let go.
That skill has been lost for ages, like the
colored light that is mocking our grief.
— they call it
a song of healing. Even if it only heals
over the slivers of wood, they'll say it's a
song of healing. Even if the wound still
bleeds, they'll say it's a song for healing.
Even when the grief's still raw, they'll beg
for a song of healing. Even when you
can't let go, they'll say it sings a song
of healing —
Remson DeJoseph is a Doctoral student at the University of Delaware, studying Renaissance drama and literature. Apart from academia, Remson is also a performer, playwright, and poet, whose work has seen the stages of New York City and Providence. Remson's writing has been featured in places such as Lodestar Lit and Chronicle Stories.