The three day wake

'You must bury
yourself
Every three days'
She said,
'Corpses are of
No use
They Will
Rot you instead.'
'You can burn
Also, if you wish
Or immerse your
Dead selves in water
If you so please.'
Then she walked away
And became ordinary
While I pulled out
My shoes,
To head to the river
Where wet soil
Had already dug up
Burial beds
With invisible tombstones
And a torn noose.
The trees were
Speaking differently
After the rain,
I heard them exchange
Something about
Someone's futile burden
Of shame.
They said the
Tug of war between
Orthodox and non
Is pointless and mundane.
'Keep walking'
The leaves motioned,
'Stop eavesdropping
Be touched by everything
But remain uninfluenced.'
I don't know what that meant
Plants were too cryptic at times.
I half slid down
A muddy slope
To watch the river
And its ripples
They taught me
The day's rhythm
I stalled a bit
Then brought out
My dead selves
Tied neatly with
Jute ribbons.
I leaned in close
To grieve my deaths'
Gains and losses,
With short eulogies
I closed them
Into the mouths of
Earth's tiny crevasses.
In the spaces
Where the deads
Had resided,
Two centimetres
Below my skin,
Grass and moss
Rushingly filled in.
My breaths
Were now wildflowers
My toes were
Dew rinsed.
For I fear fire,
I contemplated
The next dead's
Ritual,
The trees commanded
To pause a bit
Before killing
What's not old.
With a new face
I walk back
To a home
That isn't mine
A thousand deaths
Have passed
And a thousand deaths
Wait in line.
Every three days
I will look for a grave
Between olive trees
And green vines
I will be born again
And yet again
Till this voice
Becomes a
Silent wind's
Dutiful chime.
While my
Heart mourns
To rejoice
A deathless
Self's shine.

Iffat Nawaz is a Bangladeshi-American writer based in Pondicherry, India. Her first novel Shurjo's Clan was published by Penguin India (Vintage) in 2022, and was shortlisted for the Best First Book Award by Tata Lit Live/Mumbai Literature Festival in 2023.