108
Life Ends in Immolation
Mukund Gnanadesikan
Just a footnote in Monday morning’s paper
I recognize the picture
from grocery store encounters.
Eyes draw haunting posthumous association.
Why would you choose
to end it all that way
icked and swallowed
by flames’ relentless tongues?
When did hope surrender?
The question calls for speculation.
No clues remain, not even a fingerprint.
Flesh burns too quickly, truth is silent ash.
The newsprint says
you gave up hope
when they took your newborn from you,
In my eyes, I see her stubby arms outstretched.
I, but a stranger
bear icy guilt and grief
for soft indifference
that now turns to briar thorn.
The empty swing set creaks,
chain links glistening,
seats blowing in the wind.
None comes to push it.