GRIEF Poem: CHRONICLES OF LOSS, by Rubeena Anjum

Joanne Koenig Coste, 1940-2022
“I am seeking, I am not lost. I am forgetful, I am not gone.”

cobblestones, shells, fishbones, pearls, ambergris
images of a sea appearing, disappearing in a sieve,
Whose place is this? Where am I? My name seems lost
he says: Who are those people sitting there? He looks
at her in progressively learned helplessness―

As one left behind, the caravan far ahead, camel
bells heard on more, blistered feet on scalding desert
sands, she lifts him with ice-cold hands of care.
―Reminiscent waves weave oblivion, but trusting
swollen memories, steering slippery lanes

he moves on―maps saved in remote safes identify
getaways, houses appear, which one to knock, no door
bell rings, paint-peeled tracks are gone, staring
back are blanks: walking down the stairs, his anxious
hands turn pages of chronicles, lines thinning fast,

fading inks plant smudges on sweaty palms. How
was morning? ―a long pause―I had breakfast.
How was your afternoon? ―a long pause― I had lunch.
What else did you do? ―a long pause―afternoon ended.
Confined in cupped hands, the brook in spherical

sounds of catch & let go, rusty orange waters receding
in tunnels, the flow swallowing recalls―there’s no pull
back―fists knuckling for help, fiber-thin flickers glow
― he looks at his son and says: he is my dad; I love him.
Assured, perhaps someone is listening, he articulates―

All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women, merely
players. Is it a poem, a prayer, or a book title, and who
wrote it? The soliloquy continues: 4 times 4 equals 8. No,
no, it is 16; how strange that 16 or 61 is the same as
1991, digits somersault, words fox jump, in staccatos

aging cuckoo clock filters the usual sunset; not long ago
perhaps yesterday, maybe today― maybe― maybe
Grandma baking pies; air sniffs cinnamon, sliced apples
stir appetite, headlines on black and white TV stream―
Neil Armstrong is landing on the moon,

a winding road, angry birds are hitting a town
in a thriller, carnivorous creepers cling around palm
trees, lone survivor shivers on a shipwrecked beach―
Is this the end of my world? Mama! Where are you?
My evening is cold and dark and scary.

In swishing tugs of rowing forth in swirls, the mind,
a bunch of dandelions in the green eye of a storm: hope
held in lion-toothed leaves, in forgetfulness, footnotes tug
in her gentle touch and lips pressed on the forehead mean
sleep. Good night, my dear, the familiar quilt

―his head on her arms: light switching off, lavender scent
sinking into pillows, that intimacy of being loved, vestiges
stay. Back then, the roads they drove, speed helping trees rustle
tunes, those tears in her eyes when he said, I Love You―
His smile, a rainbow then―Now―an epitaph, grief, and loss.