The Metallic Taste of Grief

The slabs are erased by gold leaf,
and, where there were cracks,
silver thread is stitched;
the widow is groundless,
pared,
riven into slivers,
adrift in reflection,
sky-drunk in the spill
of broken blue,
sheared in two.

She is beguiled
by the sweep of dreams
and echoes
of roaming souls
who whisper
in passing clouds.
But a slice of her is lost,
submerged
in ageless space,
and in every mirrored plate,
she sees only part.