Little cousin of blessed memory,
had I known that you craved audience
for that single moment of your
dance of abandon,
I would have watched you more
keenly, more closely.
Oh Lord, teach me to discern
tender moments, minor moments
that pass innocuously into the void
like my little cousin’s last Alanta dance.
I wish I had looked above myself
& caught a glimpse of his open teeth,
that fairweather smile
& his corpulent abdomen,
his grey underpants
presumably streaked by dried faeces,
watched his hands flutter
like a sick atrium or two,
watched his legs shoot out in measured rhythm
& his face contort into a spell of
pretend tardive movements,
but his dance slipped unnoticed
unlike his dying
& now he is my big cousin.