Taps By Glenn Wright

                                       Taps 

Seven rifles blast three times—
part dance, part prayer, a piece of theater.
The black marble of the mausoleum separates
the quick from the dead,
the feeling from the numb,
The speaking from the dumb,
time from eternity.

Now alone,
I enact my own
ceremony,
pressing my hot face
against the cold, black barrier
that reflects
but will not admit my grief.

Glenn Wright is a retired teacher living in Anchorage, Alaska with his wife, Dorothy, and their dog, Bethany. He writes poetry in order to challenge what angers him, to ponder what puzzles him, and to celebrate what delights him. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Modern Literature, Rumen, In Parentheses, Muse, WestWard Quarterly, Amethyst Review, Sparks of Calliope, The Chained Muse, A Time of Singing, and other journals.