when the Matriarch dies
She takes with Her
the breath of the house
She takes with Her
a generation
a history
a truth
She was a movement
She mothered the village
and fathered the farm
farewell
to the voice that scolded the child
and consoled the broken
farewell
to the recipes i never cared to learn
the stories She never told me
as i held Her in the final hour
She had already gone cold
the angels had gathered round
stillness befell Her aura
then there were the cries
guttural wails
piercing the saturday sky
like the horn of a ship
with a broken compass
pleading for a light in the horizon
Her daughters held each other
as if in utero
as if muscle memory
because now the cord hangs loose
the branches become roots
the men draw words
on the ground
with their eyes
the children panic
the light which had guided them
beckons the Mother ship
to the unearthly plains
when the Matriarch dies
She leaves her trauma
with a shattered lineage
as they wrapped Her
in clean, white sheets
Her rocking chair swayed
in the breeze
in the verandah
overlooking the village
that birthed Her
Dedicated to my dear granny, Cilene English nee Simon (3rd September, 1944 – 12th October, 2019)
