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‘It’s better I just die,’ Brigitte Poirson

Because I do not see a trace of you
in your utterances, mother, I forgive you.
Perhaps, your demon has found a way
to mimic your voice, to agonize us –
a way of holding our bodies hostage,
as if we are thieves, as if we are slaves.
I won’t carry your words to the world
if that’s what your grief wants from me;
I won’t sow panic on your lovers’ mind.
A dirge is not to be replayed after a rebirth:
you’re not free to utter any word about exit.
There’s enough dreadful words in your heart,
leave us to battle death for you and live
in the cubicle of quietude, singing songs
of hope, of healing, and of resurrection.