During The Day Of The Dead Fiesta
I had, for a second, the urge to write
on the velvet wall, a small black area
full of cursive notes to the departed,
a little atonement of my own. I failed.
Instead, my eyes darted to the words.
You are missed, son, loved the most,
I should have stayed longer, I wanted
to say, miss you, too soon, taken from
your grieving family, fragment, ghost.
 
The smell of pebbles of frankincense
brought me back to mirrored shrines
that I visited with my mother in Yazd.
Sweetness of semidarkness, footstep
wild with feedback, doves overhead,
the contrabass of the lament of wind
dug in the psyche of meek and brave.
I can never understand that I will end.
That all have ended, leaving behind
just two squares of a sister's grave.
 

Jam16