Incantation
What words can you wrap around
a dying brother, still dying, even now.
A man who has not eaten for a month
sips at water and says, even thirst is a gift.
He asks what other gifts God has given him.
I’m your gift, his daughter says from a corner.
And he smiles and rasps—
you can only unwrap a child once.
The rest is prayer and even more prayer.
You sing softly to him in a language
only the two of you speak and he
snores softly into your palm, breath and blood.
Copyright © 2018 by Chris Abani. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 31, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.
“For the Ehugbo, how we die is as important as how we live, and to be allowed to sit in the presence of a dying brother is a rare privilege. To be graced with the chance to sing family across, to ease the journey, to make a love of dying, a grace of loss, is an incomparable gift. This is all.”
—Chris Abani
Chris Abani
Chris Abani was born on December 27, 1966 in Afikpo, Nigeria, to a Nigerian father and an English mother. Abani fled Nigeria with his mother and four siblings in 1968 during the Biafran War (1967–70). The family moved to England for three years, then returned to Nigeria. Abani has lived in the U.S. since 2001.