The Mourner

by Stelios Mormoris

Was it lover, or brother
or impossible friend

who lies here
under the gray stone?

A single tear
reflects a sliding moon

absorbed by her black veil.
She turns

into the circular current
of the bay abutting

to smother a cry
floating away

through a dripping comb
of willow trees.

Blackbirds on the pier
consider flight,

rustling their layers
while she freezes

like alabaster
in the echo of a vestibule

circled by cameos
and heirloom stares —

whose fissures down
the disfigured faces

of stoic mothers
and grandmothers

belie the love
underneath the cool

porcelain, aquiline
noses, and cast

lacework and hair.
Bells climb.

She slaps her face
then steps down

into the canal
of mourners teeming

with private litanies.
Brittle leaves

of pin oaks
detach like dismayed

hands, and land
on her hair and cling.