Everlasting

In the time it takes to pray

the professor steps out, 

smokes a cigarette. 

Grandmother thinks 

I’m her daughter. 

Mother says to ignore her, 

she doesn’t know what 

she’s saying. She says

I look like her son, the one 

she keeps forgetting just died. 

The neck muscles gave out,

he said people are coming, 

so bring bread. He says he sees

his father, so what to do next?

At two in the morning, even

the mosque is closed. What 

to do with the body? What to do

with the body? 

Grief reflected in the face of 

the twins, two faces crumbling 

and not exactly their own.

The body lays, skin soft. 

I follow the mole at the top 

of the woman’s lip. Mother says to, 

but how to say goodbye 

to someone you don’t know?