My Favorite Blue Suit
My solemn black suit hangs
down from the shoulders,
arms limp, chest barely swelling
and the pants, broken above the knee,
folded over and forgetting
to walk, is paralyzed to remember
the last funeral, my white shirt,
shoestring tie, rose above my heart
that I plucked and placed
on the casket before it was lowered
into the ground. That morning
was cold and light was a slanted
edge of yellow. The family froze
in their grief. We ate breakfast
afterwards to fill our hearts
with memory, as if living were
the only option available to us.
No one’s died since. Our lives
follow the sun of our days.
We’ve put away our black clothes
until the next time we die. But,
it’s my blue suit I love most, longing
for happiness, a wedding among
strangers, baptism of young babies
crying in the saving blue of water.
Like the cordial blue of
lovers in their first embrace,
the honest blue of bone and sky,
color of my soul, my suit of
violets and forget-me-nots.
A heavenly shower of new skin.
My favorite blue suit is waiting
to be seen in a moment of pure joy,
and would never be caught
in the company of mourners,
in their somber dark ensemble,
surrounded by all the death
that can fit in a thin black suit.
It’s a Wonderful Life
It’s a great gift to see the world
without you in it, to know how empty
it is in your absence. Your small life,
larger than it appears, loved by all,
your impact measured by
the smiles on their faces, their happy
children playing in the park.
Yet you see no Christmas this year,
no baked ham and sweet candies,
no fire to warm the kitchen, no joy
to the world, only cold and darkness.
You’ve lost faith even in hope.
The black waters are rising up.
The hand of death is upon you.
Even the angels place bets
on your future. This one, wingless
and somewhat naïve, has fallen
to earth to rescue you from yourself.
It’s a blessing to be so cursed,
to have everything and nothing,
to find yourself drowning
in the early light of forgiveness.
Robin Shepard lives in California’s great central valley. He is the author of two collections, Quiet Stars Falling into Quicksand Memory (2017) and The Restoration of Innocence (2022). His poems have recently appeared in Poetry Super Highway, Rats Ass Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, and Black Poppy Review.
My solemn black suit hangs
down from the shoulders,
arms limp, chest barely swelling
and the pants, broken above the knee,
folded over and forgetting
to walk, is paralyzed to remember
the last funeral, my white shirt,
shoestring tie, rose above my heart
that I plucked and placed
on the casket before it was lowered
into the ground. That morning
was cold and light was a slanted
edge of yellow. The family froze
in their grief. We ate breakfast
afterwards to fill our hearts
with memory, as if living were
the only option available to us.
No one’s died since. Our lives
follow the sun of our days.
We’ve put away our black clothes
until the next time we die. But,
it’s my blue suit I love most, longing
for happiness, a wedding among
strangers, baptism of young babies
crying in the saving blue of water.
Like the cordial blue of
lovers in their first embrace,
the honest blue of bone and sky,
color of my soul, my suit of
violets and forget-me-nots.
A heavenly shower of new skin.
My favorite blue suit is waiting
to be seen in a moment of pure joy,
and would never be caught
in the company of mourners,
in their somber dark ensemble,
surrounded by all the death
that can fit in a thin black suit.
It’s a Wonderful Life
It’s a great gift to see the world
without you in it, to know how empty
it is in your absence. Your small life,
larger than it appears, loved by all,
your impact measured by
the smiles on their faces, their happy
children playing in the park.
Yet you see no Christmas this year,
no baked ham and sweet candies,
no fire to warm the kitchen, no joy
to the world, only cold and darkness.
You’ve lost faith even in hope.
The black waters are rising up.
The hand of death is upon you.
Even the angels place bets
on your future. This one, wingless
and somewhat naïve, has fallen
to earth to rescue you from yourself.
It’s a blessing to be so cursed,
to have everything and nothing,
to find yourself drowning
in the early light of forgiveness.
Robin Shepard lives in California’s great central valley. He is the author of two collections, Quiet Stars Falling into Quicksand Memory (2017) and The Restoration of Innocence (2022). His poems have recently appeared in Poetry Super Highway, Rats Ass Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, and Black Poppy Review.
