I

on phone to sister i walk passages / walk rooms / walk kitchens / walk knowing that if i do not walk i will run

she says daddy locked his door and did not open it again / says had to force it / says on floor in piss and shit / says he is just very sick

this world falls down / soft quilts of dark outside windows / oiled glass & yellow light / kitchen table inside its skin of shining 

brother's wideopen face in computer light / we're booking flights he says will be there tomorrow 


II

One by one we visited him in the ER. He lay stomach-up on a cot with metal sidebars. Long bony legs cocked sideways and long bony fingers holding the sheet’s hem. Face shut stoneward against the light, mouth pink and open under the oxygen mask. For a long time I did not say anything. I did not know a person could be so thin. I did not know a body so stripped of flesh could bear a living heart. “Hello, daddy,” I said. His hands cold and yellow as stained teeth. “Hi,” he said. That sharpwhite bone of sound. The last word he’d utter on this earth. Spat out as if it hurt his throat.


III

i deleted facebook 
after my father died
i did not want the routine 
condolences
the pale discharge of 
likes
cutout hearts
weeping yellow faces

i did not want it but it came
RIP always in our hearts 
so sorry for your loss 
deepest sympathies 
so sorry to hear he passed 
keeping you in prayers 

and i thought: what is this bullshit 
i thought: how dare you 
i thought: is this what the embrace has come to

About the Author:

Kharys Ateh Laue is a South African writer and researcher living in Cape Town. She has written for Pleiades, New Contrast, and Jalada Africa. Her forthcoming book, Sketches, is due for release in 2023.

*Feature image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay