that corpse you planted last year in your garden, has it begun to sprout?

iii. sunday mo(u)rning

iii. sunday mo(u)rning

my grandmother died,
sometime in the early hours of a sunday morning,
on a rare weekend where i had returned from university to visit

learned of the loss:

from my mama's agonised wails,
never thought i would hear my mother sob:
so loud, and cacophonus -
a funeral hymn, of sorts

and from my father's silence,
as if instead of a tongue, planted in his mouth was his mother's gravestone

transfiguired myself into:
a well/ a reservoir/ a body of water
trying swim her way back home,

find the garden (of eden)
where my grandmother was planted,

so i could water her in a floodsworth of tears
and resurrect her

instead mama told me, to become a desert,
told my father, let the woman rest in peace,

and told the rest of my siblings she was going to work