The sign on the door:
Trauma Room.
A nurse,
funeral director smile,
hands clasped tranquilly
at her waist.
'We couldn't save her.
You can go in now
if you wish.'
If you wish.
If I wish.
Seven Augusts,
slow and steamy,
drift by.
What would I have done in there,
behind that door?
Once more
my fingers through her hair?
My lips upon her eyes?
My hands, a cradle for her face?
Once more?
Once more my mouth upon her ear:
Goodbye?
Take care?
Godspeed?
Don't
go?
If you wish...
I did not wish,
did not choose to burn my hand
on limbs of stone
eyes of emptiness.
I did not wish.
Last night,
on a television program,
a character spoke
of an African village.
Overlooking that village,
a hill;
on that hill,
a baobab tree.
To the tree come the dead,
to sit in its shade,
to renew acquaintances,
to sing,
as best they can,
the old and pulsing songs.
I did not wish.
And I do not regret.
Still,
watch for me, dear girl.
The time may come when
I will meet you at the baobab,
second branch from the right.
And, once more:
my fingers through your hair,
my lips upon your eyes,
my hand
upon
your heart.
Once more,
I wish.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
So, So sad. I hope that being able to put your grief into words helps, you have such a long way to go. My heart aches for you. Take care.