There was a death, a hard one to hang your hat on,
not that any hat rack has a corner on holding
emotions while hearts carry on across the coffee
shop floor to a corner table sanctified,
a temporary sanctuary, two walls meeting up
with one latte, one private space in a peopled
room, soothing isolation facing opiated unity.
A temporary time between goodbye and hello,
protected, loved, gifted. Salve for an open wound
between tomb and womb. Oh troubled Jerusalem!
Where did your hearts go when consumed with grief
and in need of a place to bury consciousness
yet know you still breathed blood? City gates and a cup
of goats milk (hats hung, lattes slung), and the drone
of faded hallelujahs (lifelike conversation)
took you, takes me, to the mother of all whodunits.