We are gathered here in spirit and in
Spirit only. The body of death eludes us
Now as it promises to do after the
Holding close denied the heart. This
Holding apart of love and death, this
Mourning denied the touch of breath,
This burying of presence, this closing
Of the eyes howsoever brief, this
Standing before the burning pyres
Of the cleaved body of grief is gathered
Here, in our empty hands, dearly beloved,
Gathered here. Our empty hands.
Last night I dreamt my body was in revolt again
That I had never learnt to be afraid of spiders
And they were attacking me again. That the fear
Of hissing noises and hanging from cliffs
Had never rewired my brain and now I was
Falling, reaching for slithering vines with
Venom in their teeth. And I think how billions
Of deaths have not taught us what to do
With grief. So many, I had not thought death
Had not taught us so many truths and ways to
Go on living. No phobias, no thicker skins,
No recoil from the hiss and bite of grief. How has
Evolution passed us by, I think. Maybe, as usual,
I have the wrong end of this writhing mess. Maybe
It is grief that keeps us human in the face
Of so much ugliness.
Is sometimes the rushing
Of a green river, carving
Stone pillars in the crumbling canyons
Of my Heart. Driven apart.
The riven highlands offer the years
A pebble at a time. A rock here
And there standing when
All about broke into dust eons
Ago. Today is a bridge under
Which the rushing waters sound
The deep, a thing to stand on
When all else seems tumbling
Past. To not have to leap. This
Bridge will not be
The last.
The sea like grey silk
Clothes its depths in
Shimmering sadness. And
Grief is not a cliff that
Demands that you leap, but
Every shipwreck knows that
There is a limit to
How long it can keep its
Secrets in the deep before
The sea strips all veneer, and
They rise, cliff like, to crash
On unclothed shores.
Giti Chandra 