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.