Friday, December 30, 2016

A holiday death

this is the death of the language 

I read Darwish while sipping hot Nescafe 
that bleeds over my notebook, coffee smeared, milk- frothed 

over the counter where she used to sit 
keep a lookout on  who stays, who leaves

it is beyond me; halls decked with last year's holly
what makes these blossoms shrink

like old age before death
an idea, a body, a leave, we all shrink

but no one thinks of the shadows
when the are standing in the sunshine

there is a dimmed light on the window today;
that the bulbs turned lighter, there are things

we bought together, old books, T-shirts, candles
flammables among your death and the cry of birth

this Christmas, you take it forward
while I sit in the car listening to the downpour 

a belief of the death of people and their birth
the death of the language in me, 

the death of love, an end, and its seemingly impossible rebirth

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