No Coward Soul
Ten years ago, ten years ago today, the machines in the ICU were turned off and Sophia died.
In That Sleep…
Bury me in my carapace of stone
Like a molten Eleanor
Without half a face
Bury me in garlands
Of burning paper
With all my pollen sparks of steel
Bury me in my mâché wings
Folded into ribs of bone
Netted into needles
The firmament is the skin of a broken statue
And the lungs of the earth are sacrificial flowers
Yet no soul is pinioned in hollow bone
By Sophia Nugent-Siegal
So I did bury her in a carapace of stone, and her words do still burn bright with fire and steel, but when our papier mâché wings—the make believe trappings of our make believe world—are put away, only the real will be left.
No soul can be pinioned in hollow bone. The soul is other-winged, for another world.
I will see you again, my funny, brave, wise Soph. I will see you again, my darling.
Loving you always, beautiful child.