Little Churches

We shake hands
and avoid eye contact.
We soak shoulders
while remembering.
"I'm so sorry."
"I'm here for you."
"She's in a better place now."
-- a phrase to mask the truth.
I don't know what to say.

Pews hold our shoulders back
pinned so we don't slump over.
Our stomachs scooped out,
clavicles exposed
as the tears
fall down.

Songs were sung that I didn't know
the words to.
Even worse, prayers I forgot.
Biblical figures names were dropped
like bombs exploding next to me
leaving my vision hazy.
I am in the wrong spot
but who's in the better place?

Is there allotted time to grieve?
Do we now place it in schedules
and measure time wisely?
I don't want to pen in my sorrows.
I'd rather really feel them
at ease of freewill.
Here I am though,
next to stained glass
looking at me all too happy.

I saw two young women
become blind by their
mothers' death.
Eyes grow grey with consistency.
All of our hands bleed glue
as we pray to god
who makes sinners pay
out of who's left