honey and sting

Since she died,
since the day I walked in to the room
and saw, not her, but a still body.

And the face, the face of what had been
her face, but was not now.
So still. The wrinkles smoothed, the skin
devoid of flush.

No breath, of course, but also,
no HER.

My sister, who'd kept vigil, went home.
I stayed to keep watch, until they came.
I thanked her body. Not HER, but her body.
Her belly, for bearing me. Her eyes, for watching.
Her heart, for her love.

I had her to myself, for that brief while. Not HER, but.

Since that day I've been trying to speak of this.
The still, quiet shock of it.
The absence.

There is no place to point.
There is no thing, a no-thing, a not-thing.
I am trying to find my voice
around this not-thing.
I am trying to be in life
now that I know,
not as concept but as itself,
the not-thingness of this thing.
Whenever I approach,
there is only
not-there.

I am holding myself
a lit candle,
carefully tending
the flame.