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Poetry . . .

Just had to share this by New Zealand poet Trish Lambert . . .


(On November 2nd, The Day of the Dead, Mexicans honour their ancestors and recently dead, with elaborate shrines in homes and public places. Families visit cemeteries, taking food and flowers, notably orange marigolds and blood red cockscomb, and the celebrations are loud and long, with bells, bands, and fireworks.)

See this gray dust swirling

It is the ground bones of ancestors

They are in my nostrils and on my tongue

They congregate in my ears

where they chatter lightheartedly

and beat their drums in rhythms

syncopated with my heartbeat

Oh yes, my blood recognizes that tattoo

They clump under my toenails

and collect in the creases

of my withering skin

If I sit long enough in one spot they will engulf me

cover me in a fine quiet shroud

I shall succumb to their insistence

and surrender without fuss

Soon enough sun shall crack me open

Desiccation shall be my lot

My bones will give back the light

Insidious lichens shall colonise me

Insects explore my crevices

Corroded scoured by indifferent winds

I shall slump with a final sigh

No body


Then I too shall blow about

on the breeze

I shall be no more than an irritating speck

in the eye of a grandchild

carrying marigolds.

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