funerals for the living


the celestial canvas above is a contrast against Mom’s

inky dress.

it darkens as her tears drop on the


i imagine the sorrow dripping into her


right ventricle/atria/left lung where she will breathe out her


as it dissipates into thin air

my fingertips reach out for her but she is on the ground, smoothening over the soil as she sobs

and sobs and sobs and –

“she’s not coming back.”

Dad is a stark contrast against the color of Mom’s long dress that

bleeds into the ground, lifelessly.

His white shirt is crinkled like the wrinkles that show when he frowns.

“she’s not coming back,”

voice a firm constant against Mom’s wavering figure.

“she’s not coming back.”



two years ago, on Dad’s forty-fifth birthday, he called for me.

eyes closed,

lips tightly pressed,

hands splayed:

a perfect image of death.

“when i’m gone, take care of Mom.”



“what happens if i die first?”



it was red

in the black of the night.

the sparks a constellation against the sky.



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