The Emptying

At number 4, grass grew from June to August
The solid oak front door obscuring
Bills unpaid, takeaway vouchers,
And a postcard from the Sun.
The body was well-dressed and mostly absent
A monocle, a mould-infested bow tie
Dark brown shoe polish, can open,
Brush gripped tight in his bent
Rigor mortis fist, bones only.
He’d choked, it would seem

Long-distant family members
Attracted by duty and pecuniary matters
Like flies to the body
Sifted, binned, sold, and removed
Nearly a century of accumulated
Memories needed no more.
Every object passed through
Their executor-digestive system
And eliminated as is the way
Along the legal path

Across the road at number 13
The front lawn is mown regularly
And a new door affixed last week
The old one, also oak, broken up
Stored in the shed,
Ready, one day, to feed the fire-pit
Its red flame energy
To be faced one last time
Its ashes to be taken by the wind
To the wild north

To the wild north

The emptying
A peristalsis of sorrow
An unavoidable appointment
With life in its fulness
A compulsory education
One that Christ knew
Emptying Himself
Of all that got in the way
Of Him touching rotten flesh
Or healing the broken-hearted