Requiem For A Mother-In-Law Gone Too Soon – Part 10

Son-in-law,
tell the doers
I have already
ferried across
the Life-River
to the other side,
where worldly worries
and other mundane cares
are mere haze
in the wistful dreams
of yesteryear –
you may dress me
in the most
gorgeous
and expensive
chiffon
lace
silk or
brocade,
it is all
like water
on the plumes
of a duck
to me;
a godforsaken bride
emasculated
the primal fruit
of my womb,
the blood-clot
I carried
with pain
and anguish
for nine moons,
the blood-knot
I carried
in the very sack
of my womb:
he was my pride
until the woebegone
doer came
my way,
smiling and
growling
like the bitch
I readily sensed
she would soon
become;
then I was banished
and rendered homeless
and made to live
like a hobo
with complete
strangers…
it was not
her fault
at all;
Son-in-Law,
I am glad
you came,
if even
a tad
too late,
battered
by sorrow
and shame
all because
the primal fruit
of my womb
turned his back
on me,
sided
with the impish
princess
of the diamond
diadem…
I have been
burned up
like tinder
encased
in a hard
mahogany wood
carved into
the glorious shape
of a Lamborghini….
Alas,
I am
Dead
I am
Gone;
I am not coming back
this way
anytime
soon;
in fact,
I may never come
this way ever
again;
I have had
enough of your
snorts
and squirts,
enough of your
aspersions
and innuendoes
to last me
three lifetimes
already, doer;
my roots are
deep down
the earth,
whatever is built
of sand
and stone
shall soon crumble
back to dust
and ashes
once more,
just as I am;
nothing means
anything to me
anymore;
I have stacked up
tons of wormwood
only to be buried
under a chunk
of ice…
leave me alone,
spitter of insults
and unspeakable
words of abuse,
leave me alone,
queen-mother of rudeness
and insolence,
you may bury me
in a Mercedes-carved
casket,
I care not
a whit,
I have already crossed
into this light
of unbearable bliss
I wish
I had known
and been told of
beforehand,
so I could have left you
sooner than later
with that cancerous fruit
of my very lifeblood
who looked on
like a pillar-of-salt
while that daughter
of Styx
trampled
and crushed
the bones of
my soul,
the very essence
of my being
and my
dignity,
or whatever
was left
of the same –
Sonny,
why not bury me
in the stark
bloody nudity
whence I came?
I am sick
and tired
of belated guilt,
hypocrisy
dressed up
saintly
like
remorse –
you may
bury me
in a pricey casket
whose cost
is as weighty
as a ton
of gold,
what do I care,
stiff
scrunchy
and dry
like tinder
ready
to be lit
by fireflies –
11/29/18

Author: Kwame Okoampa-Ahoofe, Jr.

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