the empty house
wherein death is but the darkened room.

loss, she knows,
is neither the lace-draped casket
nor the glassy, half-open eyes,
nor the mountain of flowers at the scene of death.
that is death, unjustified and cruel
in its recurring personifications;
death is not singular, and death is not poetic,
and it is not the same as loss.

loss, she knows, is the four newsmen at your door
at six in the morning, their pens ready and cameras alert.
loss is the silence in the school's deserted halls,
the echoing sound of nothingness in your house,
the images of your children
splashed across the local channel.
loss is the arrival of his classmates,
paying tribute to their captain
and their friend; it is
an ever-widening circle
of grief - of strangers and loved ones and peers -
and of helpless strength.