I, the chief mourner

on these ancestral grains of sand,
my mother watched her mama’s eyelids tenure a closure.

she was a teenager with vibrant ignorance of her body
& like the calabash for the virgin Sunday wine,

she loved the company of boys; their exuberance made her
forget her worries. she found love in the wrong hands.

the world that had already given clues of being no better with shreds
of the cemetery whispers had her sleeping on the night bed

for her demise. she woke up anesthetized after the cesarean operation
with a son. flirting with the new little boy in tears, she complained

the midwives said it was of those goddamnit pains that could be ignored
but the autopsy found a tubal rupture with massive hematoma

mom left. I was too young to see her eyelids take those permanent closure
my grandpa stares at that picture with teary eyes — my wife, my daughter

he said. I giggled the little joy on my cheeks because I asked that one question
who are those in this picture, gran-gran?

I faded into silence
thinking about his loss

his wife?
his daughter?

my grandma?
my mama?

where are they?

fire creeps beneath my skin
my heart sobs
I hold my tears up

By Sylvester Kwakye