14 Octubre, Campfire (For My Grandmother, Juana) - Poem by MARINA GIPPS
Back where I came from
I travel with odd news:
Death in the family.
The long way to Mother,
walking an anonymous terminal
as if a forgotten birth canal.
No purpose in a flock
of ravens funneling into
the funeral procession.
Dangling pearls ornament
the beloved corpse,
a feast of candles make her look new:
A virgin, a saint,
carrying fire in her skin.
Moving lights over our fragility.
I look down at my hands
and her once crooked fingers.
I wrap my shrunken self in a lace kercheif
she gave me, saying, 'Don't buy
your own crying cloth, your own shroud.
Always borrow, never drink tears.
Consume sangria at weddings to earth-
the gilded gift of her going.
With a house made of tarot cards,
I grasp Death in my hand.
The pieces seem to fall together.
The mirror holding it all on the table breaks.
The home collapses.
The skin-tight drum protecting our wombs
plays no more music,
no rhythm of the failing heartbeat.
Her whiteness will grow
We light candles to see
all of us being fed
to this same river.
Baptism and eventually,
we drown in the tired waters of a dream-
the sunlit flood of a bedroom
spilling beneath a door,
a covert coffin...
I walk through this pool of grief
streaking my shoes
with luminescent ribbons.
I pray with holy water tears
to her dragnetted saints who refuse
to answer this question:
How far beyond
the numb heliotropes?
Comments about 14 Octubre, Campfire (For My Grandmother, Juana) by MARINA GIPPS
Edgar Allan Poe
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