You return with us to the grave,
holding our hands in turn.
You speak: this is your gesture,
raised in words. Now our sister
is dead. Her face is pale
and far away behind the film
that has covered her eyes:
the filaments, the blackouts, the sheets.
This morning seems like a dream,
but it is not.
The truth happens once,
that is the truth.
And wake again to the veil of breath
on every window of our house.
The dust on our table is her hymn,
the table set with dust
our morning feast.
Dust, grave and still as morning light.
This is the hollow song she sings,
the music to be filled.
Now, witness, come.