My Mother Mourns my Step-grandmother
My step-grandmother laid on the porch
An eagled spread below the sky
Her flailing. Body only a container of the soul.
Her body only a container of cancer.
You have been old since I knew you.
I crumbled in prayers, step-grandmother,
I prayed in your tongue.
Let your grave know I wanted to save you.
But step-grandmother allows us this grief as old people do.
Step-grandmother disposes herself of us & allows us grief.
Departure is her body before my eyes in the church
A human body with lips that cannot speak
Eyes that cannot open, chin deep
furrowed in the dust.
writing about death in the month of birth
I am staring at the speckles on the wall behind you
& you talk about necrosis. You say to your friend
Oblivion is a slow mechanism of whatever dark;
Whatever night the wind rove over concrete graves.
I looked through you & it is the deep furrows of your soul I see.
It is always November in your eyes.
You drank more than your body could contain in October
& nobody sympathized with you.
You return every day to stare at my vivid face
Your eyes inflamed with redness. Nobody can explain how you keep this life;
Life contained always in a passage of exiting.
Akinwale Peace Akindayo (AKA Philip Peace) writes from a small room in North Central, Nigeria. He writes poetry, nonfiction and essays. He has works on Barren Magazine, Agbowo Art Magazine, African Writers, Blue Marble Review and elsewhere. He tweets via Peace Akinwale.