The January of my grandfather’s death
the unborn river rose from its bed.
Fraser’s South Arm raised up
its waters toward the land
spilled streams of mountains
emptied darkness of canyon walls
gunmetal clouds, glacial water
falls, light, quick and silver water
rising over moss, swallowing boulders and trees
slippery branches grazing the river’s spine
cold to the bone, bubbling
life sunken deep beneath the surface
unextinguished, tide gurgling
like the waters of death rising in my grandfather’s throat.
Death doesn’t arrive from somewhere.
It doesn’t come from far away
but swells sea-deep inside the skin,
sounds guttural rattling the body’s cave
shudder and twitch of
mind riding waves beneath the skull
plunge and surge
of light lifting up into him
indivisible being
undying
pouring through his veins love, endless, full,
luminous spirit flown, vanished,
nothing left
but beached alabaster vessel of bone.
Gabryel Harrison January 19, 2010
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