Dashed Between

The angels
hid their faces
with their wings,
and the clouds
sent their wet condolences,
as if to erode
the rigid,
stout
shoulders of this
cold and soaked stele,
Death’s trophy
over your unlived,
unmade,
stolen future.

They
bowed their heads in silence,
as if a moment
was long enough to
re-expose the film
of our memories
in the light of you…
as if a moment
was long enough to
hear the hums
you lullabied
the darkness to sleep to.

They brought
red roses of customs past,
unknowingly insulting you.
How could they know you
better than I?
Not one of them did
siblings or parents;
for I am the one that bears
your genetic makeup
unblushingly;
sole heir to your
foreign,
earth-toned eyes,
and their
far too curved lashes,
would forever brand me as yours.

And,
what should I make
of this,
pitiful epitaph that exists
as a punctuation between numbers?
The accent they heard
when you tried to
speak their language
with nostalgic tongue?
How could one symbol
epitomize your essence?
How could it
retell your story,
wrench the heart of its listeners,
draw minds to reflect
and hearts to hope,
as the stories you told us?

Maybe I abhor this sign
for the truth that it holds,
maybe your life
could truly be told so simply:
your birth,
your death,
the numbers
you dashed between…

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