GRIEF Poem: 2014, by David Emeka

The death was too quick,
people complained, it is suspicious,
they accused, faces crinkling, in
hushed whispers, so that my uncle
did not hear. And when the burial came,
it was too small, they said, it was confirmed now,
they agreed, my uncle had killed her…
and for what? Two new cars? Again they
kept this to themselves, maintaining
an artifice of neighborliness.
You’ve got it wrong, I did not say, it is
me, the murderer. And every day after I went
to the room where my uncle had buried her,
his wife, my aunt, to confess. You see,
just the day before, I’d had the first orgasm
of my life. I was 13. When you’re that young,
the patterns are unopposable, there is no
data, no rationale on earth
to defy them. I believed: since I’d killed her
already, since no matter the tears I could never attain
pure remorse, why not, again, once more?

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