'From the comfort of our sofa we went there with you. Took her scented candle to a vigil saw your sorrow in the flame asking us to waste some silence.' Photo: by Eyasu Etsub on Unsplash
Beneath sufferance stones
Poem by Steve Day
He had been digging
his four year old daughter out of the earth.
We know this because there was no choice,
witnessing him burst his straining back,
splitting spinal minor chords
of both himself, as in parent
and child, as in dead daughter.
Now he lies fixed to a frame in a crowded hospital
corridor full of ceiling dust and holes where the light
shines through.
It seems even the tired sun scours
his faithful tolerance of historical afflictions.
Yousef, what kind of poet
are you? Why waste words on old verse that
speaks so untrue. She is now earthenware, you
are her extended skeletal hand holding
the little bit of a book she knew
off by heart; you taught her to
read it, believe it and ultimately
own the space of her burial among a pile of stones.
From the comfort of our sofa we went there with you.
Took her scented
candle to a vigil saw your sorrow
in the flame asking us to waste some silence.
But Dalia does not compete
with Death who lies beside her and gradually
makes a bed, pressing on her broken body all
the weight of those adult arguments telling
her, close the book and go to sleep.
She is a ‘good little girl’ does what
daughters do. She obeys her
father, loves her mother (who wept and wept).
Underneath four more floors of silence gave up the
final words she ever
heard, a closed book of sorrows.
