Maybe it was symbolic that I had 
Mourned you before you morphed 
Out of your tender flesh. I slept in 
Black clothes. You aborted my sleep
With cries. I roamed around the room
With clenched fist against pain but 
‘Twould be madness to punch the 
Wind. Your mother had this darkness
In her eyes. Her shoulder was heavy.
Motherhood stretched her breasts 
And Grandma’s back bore your body.
I knew the demons were present but
I didn’t know they came with the 
Grim reaper. I’d have prayed in 
tongues through the rugged night 
And teased God to pretend that you
Were another Hezekiah and Grandma’s
Back was the wall you faced with 
tears of supplication for another full
Day to breathe and laugh and eat 
Biscuits and tell Mommy again “My
Mummy, I woke up” 
I hope you remember that I poured
Prayers into your forehead through 
My palms, that night, before returning
To bed. That’s our last contact before
News got to me that you were on 
Your way up, all ready. To and fro the 
Medicine house, we missed the 
Emergency flight of troubled mothers
And back home, ’twas the debris of 
Your being on grandpa’s bed. I once
Cursed death for taking a random 
Kid at Grandpa’s accident. Today, 
Again, I curse death for breaking this
Home like a robber and choosing 
Your body as a window to burgle 
Out joy. Sorrow is the simple song
when  a soul rolls out and the body 
Becomes a dead log. I believed that
Dead bodies could be Adam-ed again
Sustained with explanation that Gene
Mutation and life expectancy would 
Only mess you up for eternal beauty.
Hear, my baby, your uncle is lame
And he can’t defy this art of disappearance. 
Your picture is the background of the
Keyboard I wrote this poem with. 
And like stale morcha, I can still 
Smell the whif of your abandoned skin,
Brush hair with bonds and white 
Round neck you vomitted on — sparing
The blue love design on the chest.
We’re still preaching to your mom
And fumbling for accurate words 
To lessen the pain from the pinch 
Of your death, I mean your departure,
I mean your holiday, I mean your 
Sweet stay in God’s safest palms
Where mortality cannot reach.

Psalmuel Benjamin is a writer and poet from Nigeria. He’s got poems and other writings published and forthcoming on digital magazines and prints. Facebook: psalmuel Benjamin oluwasheun, Insta: spokespsalmuel