Death left for good by the last train

Death left for good by the last train,

and my grandmother stood waving to it.

Not in farewell, but frantically,

to stop it and get aboard. She would have run,

if she could. But now she will only get better

and better in not being able to run,

she will build it up like a storied cake

that endlessly climbs the skies of her

storied past. But no death will be the cherry

on top. For death left for good

by the last train.

I was just beginning to get used to death,

when it chose to leave for good

by the last train. Its scent,

that once spread as strong

as the slapping grin of a jasmined head

in a sweaty bus, ceased to be. Forgive me,

but it had nothing to do with the fragrance

of hospital corridors; the scent of fear.

Death smelled of a million things.

Of coffee from a half-drunk cup, the soap

that smoothed out the fall in the bathroom,

the old starch of the saree that strangled,

the car perfume fighting the blood stench

on the steering wheel, etc.

But mostly death was sound for me. It took

voices away.Many dear ones I mourn,

I have forgotten how they sounded.

I hear them in my own voice now,

as if reading them from a book;

they have been muted out.

But now voices will stay and sing

and speak and curse forever,

at once, or taking turns, or muffling each other,

but forever.

They will also mourn the only thing

to be mourned: that death left for good

by the last train.