(For Gloria Eze, 1973 – 2005)
I know a small hill down the village road
where the dead come to meet daily at dawn.
I went there for you; you couldn’t be found.
Did we bury you so deep into our gluey loam?
What pried you from us is stronger than our will.
But what binds us is tougher than the pull of death.
I offer you these words as victuals on your way.
Take them and do not look back in regret.
Since you never visited us I know you’re loved
wherever you are the way we’ve loved you.
What else could have rent our hearts as your death did?
I speak to you not to make you feel guilty;
I speak to you to let you know and have you beam:
In every corner of our house I find silky threads
of your hearty laugh; they stitch our hearts back again
to the shape that love has meant them to be.
And more in Eclectica