How to wear sorrow on sleeves like badges.
Proof that life does not go on.
Mama wants to tattoo us with tear tracks.
She winds our hearts to the beat of the death march.
Nana was the same:
Kohl is not allowed at your father’s funeral.
You must wear black for 40 days.
There are rituals and heaving and darkness to observe.
Do not smile. Do not giggle. Sit still.
Death is a serious business.
It is not a Facebook post.
What do they think this is—a social media obituary?
(that’s exactly what it is)
You must wait, tell each person, one by one.
Relive the telling:
Face their condolences head on.
Use the right cracked voice.
Wail.
This is not a tidy memorial service.
No food at this wake.
No fond memories or beautiful speeches.
This is wall to wall sadness.
It is screeching.
It is sorrow on display.
Keep that poem in your pocket.
This is not a damn writer’s retreat.
This is a scrutiny.
Whoever cries the loudest loved him the most.
I want to see those shoulders shaking.
Weep.
Let blackness spill everywhere.
This feeling has to stay:
Play it on repeat—
the call of an obscure prayer you never cared to memorize