"... good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night."

I sort of graduated today.

I look forward
with heavy melancholy:

No more Papa reading devotions
to the accompaniment of aircon din.

No more Mama, arms all up bewailing —
because I ironed badly — that I'm not prepared.

No more
siblings.

No more cat to greet me
meow at the foot of the stairs.

No more puppy to greet me
panting puppy glee.

No more quiet afternoons spent
reading in the torpid upstairs.
_____
I sort of graduated today.

The end of a decade-long walk
   on a now burnt beach.
The end of a quiet, violent conversation
   which seemed impossible to reach.

The end, the bittersweet close
   of a play you love, you live in, you die in:
   of a book you breathe, you cry, you sieze —
   the black, iron letters peeling your shy skin.

"You will understand, won't you?"
The little gray seacraft bobs away from the dock.
She stands at the edge, looks out from the cliff,
a subdued Dido, weeping on the rock,

crying out no name,
only crying inward
an inarticulate, trembling cry,
while another cry is heard

wafted by the winds
from the vanishing
little seacraft
till now wavering.
_____
I sort of graduated today.

A weight of sadness touched
my head, pressed down, and settled
in my heart which sputtered:

"O Lord
.
.
Lord
.
.
Lord
.
.
O Lord, please don't forsake me,
a child scared out of his wits.
.
.
Never let me go, Lord."
_____
I graduated. Thank you, dear mother;
Dear father, thank you. Thank you
for being willing to let me go.
I graduated — no, God graduated me:

the end, thank you so much, the end.