DEATH Poem: Requested Sunday Service in April, by Liliani Santos

I died back in 2002;
they cried for my life
or lack of it, barely
a year old on earth.
Wails and grief-stricken people
surround the casket, like ants
to crumbs, like moths
to light. A prayer
fills the empty space, echoes
off the walls and pews
reverb on the mortal plane.
The gate is open, apparently
and a parent stands awaiting
arrival. Arise, they stand holding
hands, fingers locked, thumbs tucked
under palms; sobs under breaths.
Plants grow under different conditions;
some die without the right
care, others survive. Resilient things
that grow anywhere. Pothole cracks,
the side of the street, gutter
vines and weeds and dandelions.
I tried to be them
like them, resilient, strong, alive.
The conditions were not met.
I am alive again, again,
another life to live through,
elementary schools, middle, high, and
either get to college or
learn a trade job or
work a job standing hour
after hour, grow older, higher
management, and soon I could
be up with the big
ones, dollar signs for eyes,
and maybe I could finally
pay for next month’s rent,
pay off the medical bills,
pay for better care, next
time I die.

Author: poetryfest

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