On the Eve of Grandma’s Burial
Omodero David Oghenekaro
When the night fell on us, our spines cringed
at the ritual hoots of owls, necks aching
from the weight of shared grief, and our throats stretched
into endless dusty roads of remembrances.
From the backyard, the scent of jollof rice & fried tilapia
drifted into space, livening the air for a moment,
wonder-ridden children launched beautifully
into moonlit forest tracks, trailing the nascent glow
of fireflies into the thick folds of night...
On my way to the well, just beside the family house,
I stumbled upon my uncle's grave, its weak concrete layering
splintered by the wandering feet of children hopscotching
I imagined him laughing in the lonely cubicle of his coffin,
his cold skin warmed by the vibrations of the living,
how his eyes must've twitched at that sudden crack
in the ceiling of earth—that burst of light, a heaven
he could not reach but only feel from the confines of the dark.
By midnight, Eziama had grown so still as if stunned
by how much space the dead still occupy in our hearts,
trees opened their arms to receive the vagabond wind,
the sky was an inverted cosmic road holding the moon like a waning keepsake,
and my grandmother, in her flowing silky burial gown, moved through
it all like a lost bride, her whiff lighting up the fresh candles of her absence.
When the night fell on us, our spines cringed
at the ritual hoots of owls, necks aching
from the weight of shared grief, and our throats stretched
into endless dusty roads of remembrances.
From the backyard, the scent of jollof rice & fried tilapia
drifted into space, livening the air for a moment,
wonder-ridden children launched beautifully
into moonlit forest tracks, trailing the nascent glow
of fireflies into the thick folds of night...
On my way to the well, just beside the family house,
I stumbled upon my uncle's grave, its weak concrete layering
splintered by the wandering feet of children hopscotching
I imagined him laughing in the lonely cubicle of his coffin,
his cold skin warmed by the vibrations of the living,
how his eyes must've twitched at that sudden crack
in the ceiling of earth—that burst of light, a heaven
he could not reach but only feel from the confines of the dark.
By midnight, Eziama had grown so still as if stunned
by how much space the dead still occupy in our hearts,
trees opened their arms to receive the vagabond wind,
the sky was an inverted cosmic road holding the moon like a waning keepsake,
and my grandmother, in her flowing silky burial gown, moved through
it all like a lost bride, her whiff lighting up the fresh candles of her absence.
Omodero David Oghenekaro is a writer from Delta State, Nigeria. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Lolwe, Trampset, The Lumiere Review, Yaba Left Review and elsewhere. He's a member of the Frontiers Collective and currently reads for Frontier Poetry. Reach him on twitter @davidomodero.
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