Blues for Belle

A dozen chant the praise that I can't sing.
today or any day,
that I can't bring my mouth and tongue to say
because she's gone,
gone far,
gone far away;
and I can't sing the thanks the others sing,
because she's gone.

She's gone, that's all, she's gone,
and I who sang can't sing because she's gone.

You think she was a lady.
Well, that's true,
a lady loved by many,
who on cue reminded you of duties,
old and new,
she thought were yours to fill;
and she could beg,
as shameless as a hussy without a home,
although each day was fed.

There is no room where she is not remembered.

Like a poem
her lines keep coming back,
as if her track, whether seen or imagined,
had been cast,
converted into brass or set in stone
to keep a door wide open.
Yes, it's true that she is not quite gone,
although quite dead.

Her urn of ash is buried beneath our bed.

So, yes, she's gone,
that furry little self that was so wise
and made us two more human;
up and gone,
as if to greater need, to greater love
because we had each other.

It's hard to say just how her absence feels.
It's something new,
this sitting face to face without her calm
and silent intercession
to accept
an absence made so plain;
not to explain, but simply to admit
each other's pain.