We interred her on a foetid day;
Through the late night-vigil she lay
Death-cold, on a cenotaph of ice.
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A bandage bound here jaw in place,
imprisoning a smile on the numbed face
left bare for mourners to recognize.
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A creeping cancer had shrunk her head
into a skull, her plump body dessicated
into the rigid skeleton we carried.
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The insubstantial bier imposed no strain
On her pall-bearers. She had already borne all pain
For three excruciating years.
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How often must she have cursed
that impostor-seed she was doomed to nurse
Into an unfilial murderer.
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The raw grave we scraped in a narrow divide
Between terrazoed plinths on either side.
Even in death, she lies deprived
Of space, as in life she was time denied.
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[Unpublished.] |
