Well along pregnant, she was as alive as it's possible to be, I guess.
Then stuff happened. Accident, statistical exception, tragedy—
There are many ways to describe this sort of death. It had a bit of everything.
But finally one corpse inside another, inside a box.
[(Eurocentrically) Metaphorically speaking].
I have the words, and inside the words
Hopefully profound meditations on death, on life,
On pain—Within myself, I try to pay my respects
by thinking sombre thoughts.
Respects to Death, maybe.
To hers as my own. I fail.
The arrogance of the living.
Cain's offering was rejected, after all.
Death is normal, and only loss
Gives birth to grief; else it gets stuck in my throat
And dies coming out. It was never real.
And all there will have been for them to miss
Is me. And I moved on, leaving them bereft.
