a lump in my throat
sliced through by air
that utters a meek sound of

s-sorry

i’m so, so sorry
that honoring your death
with the hope of flower petal
hearts on my sleeve
feels like a foolish feat

i will call it by it’s name
for our culture of silence
that they call tradition

that mourns your passing
but denies your oppression
has and continues to leverage

your life and even death,
in hopes of gaining social capital
in search of title, pity,

attention

for the veil of patriarchy
cruel and persisting
makes it disturbingly
easy to villainize mothers
and sisters

breeds the jealousy
and destroys the
kinship between

grandmothers

and

granddaughters

long before the cancer

younger grandmother,
i have learned from
mothers and sisters

from different kins and
different lands
how to radically love
one another

i am sorry i didn’t love
you radically in life

i am sorry we didn’t
get to heal together

younger grandmother,
when we die, do we bring
our memories with us?

how about the painful ones that torment our being?

is to die, to heal? is to die, to survive?

younger grandmother,
we will meet again

when we meet again,
i will love you radically

i will call you by your name
grandmother, Maiv Huas