The Yawning Grave, poetry by David Estringel at
Sacre Bleu

The Yawning Grave

The Yawning Grave

written by: David Estringel



What waits (for you)
beyond cold reliefs of
endless sleep
and the gossip of earthworms?
I scry the shadows (for answers)
stretching ‘cross your new marriage bed—
a stone for a pillow and
blanket of red posey—
but they scurry and scatter
like children
with the rolling of clouds across the sun.
How I long for the cradle
of loving arms
and the smell of kitchen on
your clothes.
Though I hear the beckoning
of the yawning grave,
wailing and ached,
like a baby bird awaiting its first
taste of flesh,
I will not take its hand
nor tarnish my finger with its
dubious promise.
Summer is no time for the cold.

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