Smoke curls mesmerising, blurs her standing there
by the door legs astride – guarding, menacing if a thing moved,
a leaf stirred; face swollen with grief, throat sore with wailing.
Pale moonlight steals through the window over my bed – mattress
folded away, planks of teak ripped. And the cotton from my pillow
mists the candle light on the table where no food is laid,
the bottle of milk in fridge put away. Where is my dinner,
where are my blue pyjamas? Is my grief nothing?
Does he not notice the moons in my toe nail when he bends
to rake the fire? I reach to touch him through the lights
that blind, a psychedelic mayhem that terrifies-captivates
in a sickening alternation through the night dark as sin where
every curve of thought, every angle of memory grows arms,
flail like tentacles of anemones stirring the blue depths of sea.
Million limbs that I birthed drop into the seed that explodes
confines of time and dimension; here words with ashes blow away.
Chonyid Bardo is the intermediate state at death time when the breathing stops, before the desire for rebirth sets in.
Read here to know more about Chonyid Bardo