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2013 poetry chapbook How a Bullet
Behaves
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Hollow Solace
Cara Losier Chanoine
Tonight, the sun sets heavily
upon your absence
Your kitchen counters are lined
with Pyrex-encased casseroles,
as though food is the closest thing to comfort
that anyone has to offer.
We drink cheap liquor
and everyone is laughing too loudly
to stave off the specter
we call silence.
We buried you in the dress
you’d been saving for the occasion.
We cried over your open casket,
then carried you into the church,
where the priest delivered his
hollow solace.
It was probably
a lot like you expected it to be.
Now that we have put away the ceremony
of the day,
I cry in short, unexpected bursts.
People hemorrhage platitudes
as though what they are saying
is out of their control.
She’s in a better place.
She would want us to be happy.
I can’t help but think that what you’d really want
is to not be dead.
The evening frost etches a prickly landscape
onto the exterior of your windows,
and I wonder if you have written me a letter
in a language I don’t understand.
I press my forehead against the cold pane.
“Don’t worry,” I say.
“None of us will allow you to be gone.”