What Death Really Means

We diluted our prayers with yawns,Morning clothedIn darkness and cold.At every sound of the bellIn the chaplain's hand,We invented our own dumbness—Holy Spirit fedOn the silence. Soon the matron's manWould kill silence with his mouthAnd feet: screaming, runningAcross the chapel. He kneltAt the feet of Jesus's statue—The Holy legs of Christ, soakedIn liquid agony. To hide God'sDefeat, the chaplain shookHis hand and we linedOut of the chapelAs a funeral procession.Because curiosity was our religion,Three of us slipped out of the lineLike extracted teeth.     Like lizards,We crawled behind the matron'sWindow. We looked:A ghost covered with a pieceOf clothing the colour of day,Lay on a bed. The matron'sOnly son stood close to the table,Covering the ghost with whispers.The whispers soon took the shapesOf words: mummy, why didYou leave me behind?    Iku ma ni ka ooo