It was a long parade of people,
the longest wailing of grandmothers,
hushed tears of the dead’s father,
a wife’s surrender.
Everybody shed a tear, sadness in their eyes –
Father Jose geared for the final rites,
holy water for the dead,
peaked the graveyard in that afternoon.
In that afternoon, rushed the wind stirring memoirs
little kids tears’ wet clothes that fold isolated.
There was something of that space in the crowd – affection
not solely for grass
not solely for earth
but also for rain
That last bullet slaughtered countless tortures
I would like to think I was Laura and he was Logan
My Dad’s smell of passing away streamed mercy
what he left, yielded in us
His most Sacred Heart.