Post-mortem

a man and a qeej dance a somber tune

A rhythm for two but played by one

Golden boats ford the cost of dying

As if the spirit has to pay their tithes to finally

be allowed to rest

Do the marks of life on the body accost a discount

Does it read like a pale receipt at a local corner store

When the God of death reviews these scars

Can she see the faded jungle gashes on the legs

that tell the story of a death march survived

Can she hear the wails of a past life

Mourning a life passed by three sovereign lines

When the soul crosses over the final river,

Is it finally in the promised land of refuge

Refuge — the condition of being safe and sheltered

Back then, that was a false friend

There were no confines of safety

no warm walls of shelter

There was the cruel luxury of talking about

the things that couldn’t be haved.

Can the soul now rest in a place that it calls home

Full-time among their warm love.

Or do the deceased still have labor

Will it still be shackled to pay the rent of the dead like it did in the

land of the living.

Will it face a predestined hurdle

Like the conditions that have normalized

Non-normal life, an expectation of —

This soul cannot be blamed for bracing the next phase of hardship

When there was persecution,

It led to migration.

A state-sponsored genocide and marginalization

Amalgamation of intergenerational traumatization