Excerpt: This Kind of Child
Mustard seeds sought in vain: only death is found. The body's frailty,…
Read more →Grief spills from a floating house, a towering tsunami offered for last rites.
We have entered a house that floats on water.
This is where we must live from now.
We write poems. We tweet for beds and oxygen.
We call each other, the dread in our voices a flutter of pigeons.
A young girl has been in prison a whole year. Her father lies dying.
I hope she’s not in jail so long she doesn’t see my face.
We write poems. Uselessly. We fall mildly ill. We check our oxygen levels.
We hope to live, to tide over.
We hope our children will live, tide over.
Whenever she comes back, she should find her room in good shape.
We offer prayers to nameless gods,
find lightness and solace in movies from the seventies.
For a while, we are okay. We hold up.
This house that floats on water is in a containment zone.
But, in the end, our grief escapes it. Spills out.
Wave after wave.
A tsunami of a poem towers over the sickness.
This is the only way. Who said cleansing is easy?
This tsunami of a poem is what we offer
that young girl now on her way
to perform the last rites, to look upon his face
one last time.