E62: The Poetry Hotline feat. Alex Jatto

Josephus· Host0:00

[dial tone] Poetry Cafe.

Alex Jatto· Guest0:05

[beep] Hi, my name is Alex, and the title of this poem is A Funeral. Where's my funeral? My aunt got one. My grandfather got one. My teacher got one. My friend got one. How come they get one, but I don't? How many more parts of me must die, uh, be cut away before I am unrecognizable? How many more funerals will I attend before I am the special guest, dressed in, in casket, embalmed and, and, and emptied out to resist the dust where I came from as long as I can. Will I cry? Push a tear out like my last bow. Would, would people label me as selfish then? I weep at the expense of others as terrible news kisses my ear, so I ought to be allowed to cry a river at my own service. Death has a way of bringing the fear and the child out of me at the same time. Some say kids are the least afraid of death, uh, because they don't really know what it means to live. That doesn't stop the eight-year-old from crawling out of my eyes every time death fills the air. Like, like me and God are in the kitchen. Uh, he's peeling onions right in front of me. Uh, he sees my, my eyes watering, but won't tell me what he's cooking. Who does a child run to when the village has been uprooted?