Some pass before us through the portal space
Leaving others on the other side place.
Call it curtain. Call it porous door.
But we will not see what’s loved anymore.
Our mother laboured to deliver us.
Labour’s also death’s midwife accomplice.
Yet we stand suspended at world’s end edge
Using rites to make our final pledges.
The curtain closes. We step back once more.
No longer hanging by the lintel door.
Copyright 2019 Bee Smith
Featured photo of author by Jane Gilgun