No Time for Spoon River

NO TIME FOR SPOON RIVER

Published on ‘From Whispers to Roars’, Quarantine Tales , and on the printed anthology ‘Poems from The Lockdown’, available on Amazon

“Dear grandparents, it is difficult to let you go like this. You have always told us that without each other you could not live. So, one after the other, just two days apart, you are both in Heaven. We are heartened to think that now you are finally together again and can hug each other once more.” (Dante and Angelina’s grandchildren from Clusone, Bergamo, Italy)

‘Suddenly’

He is gone, in peace.

Quietly, ‘suddenly’, 

She has left us.

‘Suddenly’

And nothing else,

For fear of mentioning 

The terrible word.

You died alone,

Your soul passing through ventilators, 

Forced breath.

No hand to hold yours,

No whispers, no hugs.

Now, you’re with the other 156, 

Smiling at us from the obituary photos 

Filling up the eleven pages

Of the local newspaper.

A few printed lines

The only way to say

We loved you.

Did you comb your hair 

Before taking that picture?

Did you wear your favourite lipstick?

Did you use that little square of you

For a new ID or passport,

Or driving licence?

Your coffins line up, 

Along the four walls of the church.

I guess you beckon to each other now,

Sharing memories of grandkids’ first steps,

Children’s graduations, 

Fiancées’ withered flowers or rings.

Frankincense and myrrh flutter in clouds, 

Graze the marble walls,

The stained-glass windows, the cross,

The holy water.

Baptisms, marriages and funerals

Have the same scent here.

Prayers murmured by the priest 

Echo among the forty who departed,

And the few ones 

Still kneeling.

At the cemetery,

Only the mourners’ eyes speak.

Mouths and noses are covered,

For the dark evil rages in disguise.

Sealed corpses queue, 

As if buying 

Groceries from heaven’s store

Rather than minutes, or the flicker 

Of a quick goodbye before burial.

Not far, 

There’s heat going on, fire,

Non-stop burning,

Smoke—

Like on the ghats of Varanasi,

Without the chanting, the ablutions,

Without the river Ganges 

Welcoming you in its arms.

They say we are dust

And to dust shall return.