The Origin of Grief
It began while the honey still sweetened our tongues.
Snowflakes umbrellaed the garden flowers
as the hand of God waking us from our slumbers.
Outside, the birds are returning home in
flock, afraid someday they might not live to
own their wings
if all that remains of the sky is bloodshot.
In the bathroom, the water envelops my
and memory unbuttons into a freshly dug
The body re-mourns the past where a coffin
is a pathway for a new beginning. On TV,
reads George Floyd died of cardiopulmonary
Another says he trailed the wind’s feet when
the breath became
too short. If you ever paddled a canoe in the
face of a storm,
ever psalmed a requiem for a dead brother,
ever watched a bird struggle against the wind
until its wings become broken umbrellas,
you will know how calm is the burden
ushered through the mouth of a gun
than the fist of another man.
In the dream, candlelights keep burning on
the skin of darkness.
Floyd unfurls as a garden rose into the sun
into the night as sphinx without its wings.
In my mouth, every song sharpens a knife
for the body
swollen on too many loss stories. The origin
ends as a mirror into missing memory.