Pentecost

After the death of our son Neither the sorrows of afternoon, waiting in the silent house, Nor the night no sleep relieves, when memory Repeats its prosecution. Nor the morning's ache for dream's illusion, nor any prayers Improvised to an unknowable god Can extinguish the flame. We are not as we were. Death has been our pentecost, And our innocence consumed by these implacable Tongues of fire. Comfort me with stones. Quench my thirst with sand. I offer you this scarred and guilty hand Until others mix our ashes.