sing the requiem songs
& lament the axing
don’t cry. walk on the liminal.
yesterday, I could smile and dance,
before now, I could smile and in loss,
now, I don’t know what the soul is,
and my dad would still ask, don’t cry.
walking out of the liminal is about the silhouette
the sun being muddied and on your back,
learning that a shade can be light
with a strained view
& carrying your own light isn’t as easy as someone else beaming it for you
waking up the following moment
an instance of quiet seeps through the cold
the light in my vision, shines from my mother’s gown
do I call her dead
or a ghoul?
I’m not scared
she can’t harm me.
today, it’s the same after the day I was to lament;
not knowing how to,
being told how to,
prodding, looking around
seeing shovels and hoes, everybody walking on with tasks.
prodding to know if anyone is still lamenting
for the soul of a child it’s hard to understand
that after death, it’s not insensate to
go back to work…
the mind of the father
wakes up to the grave
at dawn, when only the owls can see
and weeps, even after the head shave.
when the moon comes up, I ask what’s happened to the sun,
is it splintered,
are it’s ashes ever going to coalesce?
I ask, afraid, not knowing how long the moon will be up and in void
I ask, for we can’t trace darkness even with the path of the moon so clear.
my people would say, the darkness works with the moon, it takes
and those it takes are on a rest,
lathered in honey, away from the sun’s constant worry—
to shine more
to feed light, and fight darkness.
my people would say, let her go.
I’m always afraid, that the soul might have a destination
and I am just angry, at the guide for a step I missed
there is a waterfall in my path
I can dive into it
and with its sweet melody I’ll let the saints in
but I’m scared of water
and I can’t imagine myself drowning
now, the only thing I can do is let the shadows match into the water
and in places with secrets, I hope the winds will carry them to me.
& I pray to the Lord, and not knowing how to not ask
for no more shovels. at least till I’m old and whiskered white.
I don’t know what happens to a cup so full
when its contents are used to write a requiem
for the one that filled it
& I pray, for the contents not to be as light as the stem of lilies.