On death, translated…
The first time I saw my father’s skeleton
Asleep on the heated metal bed
Pure, white, and complete
Like a student of human anatomy
I’d once, looked him over really carefully
Touching, what I’d remembered
As, the body. It was said to have been
A Bengalese man, very tall
I’d remembered the Latin terms labeled on the bones
Where the muscles are attached to, where the blood vessels flowed through
Those bumps, looking like hills, the troughs, the valleys
The circular pattern that’s so delicate
Made to, protect the internal organs
Imagine, that life was once
In these places, reproducing.
And now, he’s become too loose and lost his elasticity
Dried, and seemingly easily torn—the earth, wind, water and fire
All left
I stood next to my father’s skeleton—just like I had back then
By the dissection tables
Forcing myself,
To look at him once more, straight, in the face
So, this, is what’s become of life, you are reduced, to nothing but bones and ashes, and that, is where we will all end one day, and, there’s that sense of peace, in the poet, seeing his father’s remains.
Life, the Obstacle Course 