THE THING ABOUT DEATH
Death binds and frees.
It frees the departing soul from the body;
It binds the remnant souls by grief.
A mother lost her son.
Her wails are heard cities away,
She rents her garment and rolls in the dust,
She is not to know his grave for it is forbidden,
But the traditions forgot to forbid her from sleeping through it,
Bitter tongue, bottle on ground spilling seeds, glass shattered, rug soiled;
A little girl lost her dad.
She draws the family like she always does,
Except father is missing,
It appears she moved on quickly,
No one notices that father is in the wardrobe behind,
Covered by the shadows but voice distinct,
He talks, he reads, he sings to her,
Night after night,
Until the night he says to follow him,
And she disappears.
A wife lost her husband.
She dresses up like he’s watching,
Adorns herself with pretty jewelry,
Her necklace, she saves for last,
As soon as that is done,
She kicks the stool away.
The stool falls to the ground noisily,
But she keeps kicking,
Until she doesn’t.
You really shouldn’t write about death in so beautiful a manner and style ??
It’s a great piece, Rachel.
Hahaha. I shall refrain from doing that in the future. Thank you very much, Priscilla.
After this line: “Her necklace, she saves for last”, I started afresh with the entire poem. I feared I missed out on some undertones.
U sabi this this poetry gan.
Thank you very much.
Perhaps it’s a thing, to read and wonder on the depth of the writer, to wonder the thoughts that bequeathed such beauty and in this case; melancholy. Death really does bind, an absence that may yet feel deeply intimate.
Well, even the writer is not quite sure where the thoughts came from?. Thank you very much.