matabia
After she looks away,
the pattern on the coffin appears a batavia that shines
in the picture it becomes for her,
overexposed in this room, under the light
that is not on Java, where she imagined this moment.
The curtains still settle
as the coin sits in place
before it becomes known to her memory
that in his wake he wears the ring on her finger
Matabia–eye of a shell, shell’s eye.
Her family no longer listens to grandfather’s silence,
but still hears unspoken words
that would have only spelled nostalgia and shame for Indonesia.
Shell, with an eye–grandfather has one on his weddingring;
a polished stone with hazel and forrestgreen irises
of an Indo men who gazes into her eyes
to consummate her daydream
that she has already turned away from
towards the caretaker drawing the curtains closed.
How many times does he adjust them,
the maroon velvet becoming so thin
it’s unable to escape even grandmother,
or the widow who’ll be here
after the lilies have been swept out the sidedoor.
Everyone here, and black: sucking in the thinning air,
trying to forget grandfather’s note
that was not written,
but in its absence screams Shall I?
in the poetry she writes
from dreams of her grandfather,
who remembers her from the dream about him.
