The Afterlife

Before he died, their father declared,

he would destroy this tower of Babel

and rebuild it in seven days.

When he died, no undertakers came.

He had warned his children to avoid the morgue,

to bury him swiftly and with honour

and erect a heavy stone above his grave.

The body is the screen of a life,

Of all that it conceals and all that remains unseen.

Butchers arrived from the market square,

laughter louder than the orchestra of knives,

with scalpel, knives, axes and scissors.

Blood stained their eyes, chunks of flesh 

hung between their crooked teeth,

their cheeks swollen with the poisoned air

from their victims cut down in daylight.

One by one, they tore into the dead,

sliced his body as if chopping wood, 

and bared their missing teeth to the moon.

They were hewers of the corpse’s nose,

arms, feet, ankles and ears, even the jaw,

bagged and forwarded to the kitchen for a stew.

Even the drawers of blood breathed a bile.

This prophecy must not scent a light.

The ravenous mourners devoured the meal,

savoured the meat, crunching on the bones.

His eldest son stared at the dark clouds 

and ran his twisted tongue against his teeth,

saying that his father wanted to have an afterlife

as a soldier, a militant, a rebel and a killer,

to avenge the crimes of his children.

How to reassemble his body parts together

to fulfil his personal prophecy was a mystery,

but destiny is like the blindest love in life

that must find its way towards fulfilment.

On the seventh day, the wind rose,

the spirit roared to raise the mangled body,

like a band of brave men rebuilding a fallen city,

using their breath to close the spaces between walls.

His children heard midnight knocks on their doors,

the sharp voice of a father braying for burial. 

Even the brave son stared into the wall mirror,

not knowing how the ground would open

and swallow him whole, head, hands and hope.