There are no shoes 
for grief, the entire world 
under a blue mist; clouds, ocean, 
each and every grain of sand. 

The face must be cast downward, 
the weight of a thought too heavy 
to be held. Remember 
there can be no barrier 

between earth and skin. A child 
will wonder at this mourning, 
but parents know there must be time 
to fold the body into itself, 

arms crossed, chin upon chest, 
knees bent one at a time 
to shift the weight 
upon the shifting ground. 

No one can deny the stillness of this 
moment, the way the space between 
takes on a shape of its own. 
A man will age 

a decade in days. 
A child will reach 
to touch mortality 
at their father’s side. 

Terror can enter through the fingertips, 
even when the sea is calm. 
And a woman will always stand 
with her back to us. You can see 

her wings start to grow, 
but she will not fly. She will not 
soar above the solemn earth, 
barely a shadow underfoot. 

* The Tragedy (oil painting on wood, 1903)
by Spanish painter Pablo Picasso (1881-1973)

Held by National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C.

David B. Prather

is the author of We Were Birds (Main Street Rag Publishing, 2019), and has two poetry collections forthcoming: Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press), and Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions). His work has appeared in many publications, including Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Potomac Review, Comstock Review, Sheila-Na-Gig, and others. He lives in Parkersburg, WV.

More on the Web: By, About, and Beyond

⚡ Two Poems by David B. Prather in River Heron Review (Issue 3.1, February 2020): “To Haunt America” and “Contrapuntal”

⚡ Two Poems by Prather in Still: The Journal (Issue 37, Fall 2021): “If a Tree Falls in the Forest” and “Humidity”