v. what she might have said

after lamentations 5 and john 11

If you had been here—
the beginning of my furious monosyllabic complaint 
staccatos like the successive slams 
of a heavy door—

if  you  had  been  here  he  would  not  have  died 

Our eyes would not have grown dim, our hearts would not have become sick 
with bitterness, our music not abandoned outside the city 
gate because there was no more room 
for it anymore, and you know what that feels like! 

This is not a question, as much as it is a declaration daring 
you to look at me, whose good portion has been taken away
from her. Blame must be placed
somewhere, and 
you knew we were asking for you and you chose to wait. 

How many have died while you waited? 

And yet, in the cool, desolate mornings, I do what you do:
I wait 

messy and malleable, nose running and skin as hot 
as the stove I weep over, longing to be touched 
again by that which can restore everything, 

for you to open your arms 
wide as I yell into your chest, and tell me 
it’s not too late to be put back together. 

But then, when you stumble down the dusty lane, four days 
later, salty tears criss-crossing 
down the lines of your worn face, I can only watch 

from the kitchen as you walk 
through the garden towards the buried things, 
my prayers seeping through the walls.