I have not learnt the language of grief, yet
I open my mouth to be filled with aches
I want to speak of this pain in tongues
but my tonsils are wedged between gray pebbles & misinformed aftermath.
The other day when my friend passed away, I died in his thoughts
I wanted my eyes to become the sea; & give free course to my mind in echoing how loss should
shape my demeanor
but my tonsils are wedged between gray pebbles & misinformed aftermath
When my grandmother died, I floated in my room. I'm sure we must have met mid-air but I was
to return & her, to the choruses of cherubs after she must have peeled away from the foreskin of
[death is a deliverance]
I still haven't learnt that a body's permanent stillness and cold eyes call for grief & sobs & aches
& wails & muscle chasms & pitch-fork reminisce & sudden piercing noise & heart clanging
& that on some days, your body reacts to grief with quietude & unmoving tendrils in the corner
of your heart. Pain is omnilingual, and you need to know that silence is also a language.
I'm still learning:
grief's language must not always come with an accent of the vikings.
Timothy Ojo is a two-time Pushcart Nominee and a Best of the Net nominee. He has his works in Hellebore, Icefloe Press, BurningJade and elsewhere.
Uncovered logs from the distant past and the future beyond.