Empty Skull of the Poetess: A Saturday Poem

Empty Skull of the Poetess

What of all her musing if it comes to this?
Socket and jaw, lips that shall not kiss
beyond the compass of her time and place.
Recall the sadness of her thoughtful face,
the scratch of quill in candled bliss?

Oh, I do, I do. And few knew her my friend
as we did. ‘Tis so, agreed! To what end
shall we commit this find, will it rest
beside that of her husband, but blessed
above his station? This, I would intend.

Well then, let us carry them to the tomb
where they shall forever reside, in whom
they have believ’ed. None wrote like her,
nor jested as he. But let God himself confer
Yorick’s wife wrote verse when in the womb.

c. Ciprianowards, Inc. 2009