The day will come
When we may mourn our dead.
Grieve our grief. Comfort one another.
And carry the coffin and the flag
In a solemn procession
Wafting like a light cloud
Along the bowing palm trees
And the cooing white pigeons.
And no one will stand in the way
Of the dead.
No one will harass the casket
Nor the dead
No one will deny the dead
Her nightly ritual
She may take off the makeup and the paint
For the last time.
And sooth her painful body with balm
For the last time.
And comb out her hair
For the last time.
And only when she is fully ready
She will
Leisurely
Dress herself with a nightgown
And lay her fractured head
To rest
On an earthly cushion.
And in her mind
The slain lamb
She might survey her busy calendar
And weep.
She might review the events
Of her final day
And weep.
She might remember the sorrowful faces
Of the devoted, grieving people
And weep.
She might simply weep
Because
She is given the extra time
To weep.
And, eventually
When she has consumed the last drop of life
She will finally fall asleep.
For the last time.
(In honor of Palestinian journalist Shereen Abu-Akleh, who was killed by the Israeli army in May 2022)
