As a child, I knew nothing about grief

until the clock of my grandmother’s body

                   stopped working & her remains

were lowered into the earth on that Friday morning

                   when the air was heavy with the silence

of the bereaved who gathered at her funeral,

                   each one of them performing grief

as they folded their arms, listened to the preacher

                   talk about death & the fleetingness

of the world that lead

                   us to count our days & prepare for the boat

of death that will arrive someday to ferry us to the afterlife.

                   Nights after her burial, I listened for her breath

in the quietude of the room where not even the cups

                   on the tray made any noise, where my mother,

heavy with grief, dragged her feet across the room

                   before retiring to bed. Some days I imagine

a world where there will be no sorrow & none of us will be dead

                   & my grandmother will not be trapped to bed

because she will not succumb to stroke.

                   How heavy the luggage of grief, Lord.

Today, I have buried my beloveds, carried my grief across

                   the stations of the world.

Here on this earth, there is nothing that will save us

                   from the pang of death that will clench

our bones & render us incapable of  breath at the end of  life.