by Pavel Chichikov
He died young, was only sixty
And the widow did not love him
Circled round the heavy coffin
Met the relic, then she kissed him
On the white brow, dead man's face
But loved the life that fled and left him
Not the rigid thing that lay there
Simulacrum
Rubber mannikin or dummy
Would have more resembled him –
Say it of the corpse of God
When they sealed it on Good Friday
For a decade and four years now
Respiring inside the nerves
Face in bodiless reflection –
All who saw the body know
She did not love him
Yet she kissed him and was wed
For who can know the living form
And not regret the dead?
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
