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A pint for the dead (Marcella Boccia)
A pint for the dead (Marcella Boccia)
The stout settles slow, dark as a sermon,a black sea holding its breath.Foam clings to the rim like last words,soft, white-lipped, dissolving.The bar hums—low, lonesome—a murmur of pint-glass elegies,hands curled around the weight of forgetting,knuckles knocking against absence.Someone laughs, loud, then gone,a wick snuffed out mid-flame.Outside, the river carries its dead quiet,a slow procession of shadows and silt.I raise the glass to no one,to the ghosts stitched in the seams of my coat,to the name I once carved in a rain-drowned bench,to the hands I let go before the tide turned.The first sip is a requiem, bitter and warm.The last, a door closing.
The stout settles slow, dark as a sermon,a black sea holding its breath.Foam clings to the rim like last words,soft, white-lipped, dissolving.The bar hums—low, lonesome—a murmur of pint-glass elegies,hands curled around the weight of forgetting,knuckles knocking against absence.Someone laughs, loud, then gone,a wick snuffed out mid-flame.Outside, the river carries its dead quiet,a slow procession of shadows and silt.I raise the glass to no one,to the ghosts stitched in the seams of my coat,to the name I once carved in a rain-drowned bench,to the hands I let go before the tide turned.The first sip is a requiem, bitter and warm.The last, a door closing.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIAA pint for the dead (Marcella Boccia)
The stout settles slow, dark as a sermon,a black sea holding its breath.Foam clings to the rim like last words,soft, white-lipped, dissolving.The bar hums—low, lonesome—a murmur of pint-glass elegies,hands curled around the weight of forgetting,knuckles knocking against absence.Someone laughs, loud, then gone,a wick snuffed out mid-flame.Outside, the river carries its dead quiet,a slow procession of shadows and silt.I raise the glass to no one,to the ghosts stitched in the seams of my coat,to the name I once carved in a rain-drowned bench,to the hands I let go before the tide turned.The first sip is a requiem, bitter and warm.The last, a door closing.
The stout settles slow, dark as a sermon,a black sea holding its breath.Foam clings to the rim like last words,soft, white-lipped, dissolving.The bar hums—low, lonesome—a murmur of pint-glass elegies,hands curled around the weight of forgetting,knuckles knocking against absence.Someone laughs, loud, then gone,a wick snuffed out mid-flame.Outside, the river carries its dead quiet,a slow procession of shadows and silt.I raise the glass to no one,to the ghosts stitched in the seams of my coat,to the name I once carved in a rain-drowned bench,to the hands I let go before the tide turned.The first sip is a requiem, bitter and warm.The last, a door closing.