After It

What little she had to say,
He said for her,
And the papers went away,
Not satisfied but
Temporarily appeased.
What little there was to do,
Was done for her,
Bill making calls,
And flowers from people
She didn't even know she knew.
They all went home,
Except for the two
Who had engendered
By the choices they had made
And the secrets they had sought
The still small form
That they thought lay
Inside the obscene miniature box
In the silent church.
He tried to tell her
What she already knew,
And tried not to tell her
What might have destroyed
What was left of her soul.
Then they opened the box,
Together,
And found the nothing that had been eating at them
Since she was first taken from him,
Found the handfuls of dust
In which they had first found fear,
And would find it again,
Found the heavy gold reminder
That everything comes back to what it was.
What little he had to say,
He left unsaid, for what could he mean to her
When a soul had turned to dust in her arms?
What little she had to say,
It went unheard, for what could she say to him
Who had been there for everything
That had ever been given or taken.
What could she say to him
But nothing, like the sandy nothing in her hand,
Like the almost nothing in her heart.
What little there was to say
Went unspoken for another day,
What each had held so close and tight,
Afraid to expose it to pure air
For fear it would turn to dust.
What each thought the other didn't feel,
What each feared the other might already know,
They didn't say it, again,
As usual.
What little there was to say,
Their simply being there,
Together in the empty sanctuary
Said for them,
Although they wouldn't know until
Long afterwards.

by Mad Poetess (with a nod to Edith Wharton)

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