PERSON Poem: Elegy for a Living Relation, by Jeni Saiquois

No matter where I live, It follows;
The Ghost of His extant soul.
I have moved so many times,
lived so many lives,
but I can never seem to
bury Him (or the hatchet).

Like the beat up box of old formal plates
thrown into the back of a truck,
He always comes with to the next iteration.

But when they inevitably break,
no good luck is offered,
and they are cast aside as we once were
(does that make us broken too?)

I liked those plates;
they had a nice gold rim.
Not practical for everyday use,
but rarely brought out
even when company came.
(Much like His smile.)
Once displayed in the high cabinet,
Now lay forgotten at the bottom of a landfill,
somewhere in the Midwest

I think the plates were His wife’s;
passed down along with the Melancholy.
A bitter side dish.

I’d like to believe She bought them to bring the Sun inside,
And that she bequeathed them to Him
to dispel the clouds behind His eyes.
But the clouds only got darker,
and We were all caught in the torrential downpour.

Is that why His face is so blurred in my mind?
Why the good memories are so hazy?
Did the rain-flood wash Him away?
Did He try to join Her in an early, watery grave?

who decides when we are truly dead?

You wish me happy birthday each year,

But it only began three candles ago.
Each year I blow them out,
and wish that I knew how to respond.

I know in my bones that You’re trying
Though it doesn’t feel fair, doesn’t feel true
But for me this reconciliation must be fair,
because this is a war of love.
Is it a love of war for You instead?

If so, when should I raise the white flag?
Give You my pride as a consolation prize?
What were we fighting for, all this time?
(I don’t even know how it began)
will You help me end it?
Or will You turn Your back once more?

I call for an armistice instead.
I grab a shovel, and start digging:
“thank you. i miss you, too.”

do I mean it?
God alone knows.
(though He too, is a Benedict Arnold)
how do we know when it is truly over?

When We see Hyades in the sky.

I’ll make my last wishes and
meet You where the roots of the (family) tree grip tight,
where Our transgressions are washed away,
where We are all equal as fungal fodder.
And I will have finally found my forever home,
will pack my bags and move no more.
We’ll sit side-by-side on the porch-swing,
looking out over the freshly planted Poppies,
and We’ll watch the Sun rise, together.