The morning of your accident, you left us
in the empty key dish beside the door the bread
of your body broken for us, whose colour is ashen,
whose taste is bitter, and whose name is mourning.
A word we still cannot quite pronounce, gorged as we are
on the key to unlatchable loss.
When you left for work that morning, and walked through
the second last door you'd walk through, you left
in the key dish the wine of your blood, the fruit
of the tenebrous vine crushed and spilled for us. Our cup
passed not over from us, but runneth over.
We stagger over the thresholds of days, drunk
on the covenant of in(de)terminable remembrance.
After the night of life has passed, that last door
will open its mouth to utter the Morning
you have walked into.
We shall step over its threshold
into unbolted rooms of answers
none of our questions have been keys to.
We shall sit with you
at the table you have prepared for us, and
together partake of the feast
that bread, body, wine, blood, mourning,
life are faltering foretastes of.