By Sam Yau
on the day of your passing,
you lift the veil of transition,
walk through a five-pace fog
a wild river flows above,
shimmering the blood-red
of the moon’s edge
Jesus would not miss it, neither
would Yemoja or Kali
millions flock to the gates of heaven
to thank you for the virtue and dignity
they gleaned from your words while
living their humble lives on earth
your poems— short, unadorned,
punctuated with silence, sparseness,
their essence sculpted on a kitchen table
surrounded by six children, living and dead—
imbue the mundane with the sacred
you did not shy away from life’s horrors,
truth-telling in the plainest ways,
but always with optimism and love:
that gist of your soul that gushes from
every pore of your body that you adore
you are the bridge people cross to
find the real strength in their spirit
you rise again
and rise again
to dance