​the white gums of her coffin

​

The heat was frying

but unbearable under the umbrellas.

It’s the truth of dying.

Illusions of shade to comfort

or disturb

and disturb further

the soul thinking of the sun

beyond these curved shadows.

She led in front in a hearse.

An aunt, cousin,

or maybe it’s a grandmother.

I vaguely knew her name

and I didn’t know her either.

What remembered who she was,

what she had been,

was my mother.

She was the first of many

in the family

to start out in the city.

She had a stall where she sold

shoes

that didn’t make her much money.

It did afford a house

and a place to stay

for the rest that came after.

Relatives of distant past,

aunts and uncles,

cousins,

sisters,

and a niece

from a brother that shot himself

after he couldn’t buy her daughter

a life

he could afford to be proud of.

Now

what’s left of her after death?

A piggy bank

that’s unfillable

maybe it’s literal

or maybe it’s metaphorical

for metaphysical fillings

she filled the cracked ceramic

when no physical cash was visible.

In truth,

it’s a goodbye

and a kiss

or a bliss

of the sweetest kind.

*—Prince Kamp*

*”I dedicate this poem for those who stuck with me through my horrible writing, and for those of you who find my poems hard to follow—don’t worry that was intentional.”*