“May I know the blessing of being buried by my son.”Īfter talking with my sister, I walked out to our car, and saw several of my neighbors' horses grazing quietly in the pasture. The Yoruba prayer I included in "The Ten Lights of God," hoping Kala would be the one to pray over my body in its stillness, became a prayer God chose not to answer, for reasons I may never know: The voice was shrill and barely distinguishable, that of one of my sisters delivering the news of our son, Kala’s death. As the phone call came, I was signing a copy of Spirit Boxing as a donation to their collection. They even had a signed copy of a book by a poet I knew, and they asked about my work. The proprietors, a husband and wife, were more than gracious, the wife explaining when we arrived the night before that her husband loved poetry. We were staying in a bed and breakfast in central New Jersey, a community full of horse farms, when the phone call came. It was a morning with a soft wetness slowly lifting away.
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