I have gained many pounds
since you went away
these many years.
Mounds of flesh
piled as a berm
to defent against
intimacies...
I am proud of my girth,
it tells me of the
many untold sorrowful dead
that are interred here.
Accreting, each year,
like the outer bark of a tree
recording both feast and famine...
With each pound a pain,
I am of the earth
and my season is winter.
You see, my great heart
is a grave yard
and I am running out of plots
to bury the bodies.
But I will continue planting
to grow among the pulp, as memories
of our lost loved ones
For it surely is within us
that our loved ones live ever on
and are passed-down to our children
who will grow,
listening....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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