PRAYING AT THE TEMPLE OF FORGIVENESS FOR ZEA JOY, IN MEMORIAM BY DORIS FERLEGER

Last Monday you threw yourself,

your body, dressed in red chemise,

in front of a train.


It was your insatiable hunger

for a more tenderhearted world.

your husband said at Shiva.


Now no one will get to see

what you saw from inside

your snow globe where you lived,


shaking and shaking,

breaking into shards

of un-grieved grief, unanswered need.


I will remember

how tirelessly, with your son,

you worked to help him turn


sounds—coming through the implant

behind his ear—into speech,

speech into understanding.


Everyone will remember

how you skipped across the dance floor,

waving pastel and magenta scarves,


and prayed to angels.

O, dear Zea, your human bones

thin as the bones of a sparrow—


the way you could fold

your body to fit anywhere.

Rest now. You have succeeded.