At the Funeral; What We Do With the Body; To Accra: In Search of a Wannabe – Poetry by Ghanaian Writer, Scott Frost

At the Funeral

(usually on a Saturday),

grief wears uniform—

historically black or red,

or white

for a mother

if it’s her first time.

the drums

arrive quite too early,

testing microphones one, two!

as if death might still hear

& change his mind.

here,

women carry crying

in basins on their heads,

balanced so it does not spill too loudly.

the dead man’s name

is folded into greetings,

discussed like a rape case

by the panel of judges

under the tents.

they say it softly,

like it might bruise the air.

i watch the body lie

as if resting from work.

even stillness here is exhausted.

when they say take heart,

& ask me to dam the rivers

beneath my eyes,

i touch my chest—

it is already carrying too much.

What We Do With the Body

First

we wash the body.

not to clean it—

but to say goodbye with our hands.

the water remembers everything. the

ribs do not argue

& silence is finally obedient.

outside

the compound fills. the

plastic chairs multiply. grief

is celebrated

like a barren’s first child

we dress the body in its best truth. hide

the stitches scars

from the postmortem

under a cockroach suit

& lay him like a V.I.P

later

we lower what remains

into red earth

& call it rest—

as if the ground has never been tired.

To Accra: In Search of a Wannabe

At the bus stop

belief changes buses.

Everyone is going somewhere urgent,

& no one agrees on the route.

A preacher shouts salvation over engines

& the woman selling maame oo dendeeiii

like they’re small mercies

argues with a man who argues with time

& loses spectacularly.

Here

hope is handwritten on cardboard:

Accra Direct.

The bus arrives late, of course—

even miracles respect traffic.

When I finally board,

I leave behind my reflection

in the cracked mirror of a kiosk,

still waiting, still convinced

this is where everything begins.