Kevin Bennett: ‘Home from Rookwood’

Home from Rookwood

A twitch of fate, and there were the flowers,
The older eyes of seldom-seen cousins,
The pattering of flung holy water
Drops onto horizontal polished wood.

The many questions I could have asked you.

The calendar noted, week after week,
In that familiar legible hand, with
Reminders, birthdays, feast days, appointments;
Then the first blank months of eternity.

The many questions I should have asked you.

The fleeting early sun spotlights the dust
And midnight thoughts touch on disease and death—
Those aches and pains that somehow go away.
And the void behind the noise of my voice?

The many questions I may still ask you.

Kevin Bennett