From The Grave Poem by Germina Melius

My son is calling from death's grave.
Mother! Do you miss me?
Silent was I, straining to hear a ghost's tale.
Mother! Can you hear me?
Dead men do not utter words like singing birds.
People are mourning in half-empty churches, congested before.
Another black man is speechless.
Mother! Are you mourning?
Memories cannot bury pain; hate is but a thorn piercing the head.
Mother, are you thinking of this soul of bones?
Are you well?
Some parade with proud uniforms, badges gleaming, guns without a muzzle.
My son is calling.
Mother! Can you help me?
Ghosts do not utter words like happy children playing.
I heard his heavy breathing, then it stopped like a dormant red light.
Mother, I am dying.
Who can save me?
Tell my brothers, I died.
Convey my story to the world.
My son is calling from the grave.

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