A Pond With No Fish

by *StrayedMusician

It is hopeless, the elders say,
to dream of a pond with no fish.

My father's wet eyes escape
as far as the Sanger hills,
I often see his ghost
wading through the drumbeats
as they pound from night to night.

His last sounds compose pain
as the prayers align by burning sticks,
the hollow chicken's mouth-split,
face cocked upwards.

Together, my brothers graze each other's faces
like men without women to love.

Parents say, Death is a journey
that everyone must learn.  Little children
attend to be polite. They are stupid
as they drink their sodas without minding
the mourners--other times,
they are sad and sweet:
their cheeks dribbling,
their teeth missing.

Savoring the liver stews and blood pudding,
I feel my soul releasing into a wild boar-
afraid that I will run wherever, whenever.

All the while, mother's eyes bulge,
her body turns lifeless.
I am not by her side.
I see her spine become earth's cane
as she towers over the smallness of her feet,
allowing herself to disappear.

In a dream, I am unable
to outrun a dangerous man who said
he could take me to see my parents,
that all I had to do was jump
into that pond and beyond it
was all heaven. Instead, I drown him
and walk back over those Sanger hills,
holding my father's hand.