My name is Rodrigo Tumor and I trained in theology and maybe because of that I've been asked

a number of times to take funerals.

All of us who've taken funerals and all of us who've been to them know that one of the

things you're hoping for is that the language won't interrupt the grief and that the language

can be in support.

I'm telling you this because the poem we're going to look at today from Siddiqui Tsukogi

is a poem that he wrote in the aftermath of his small daughter's death.

She was just a few weeks after her first birthday.

And I'm telling you that because that might mean that for your own self-care you're going

to decide oh today's not the day to listen to this one or tomorrow or ever or maybe I want

company or maybe I don't want company.

I want you to know that as you think about this poem and honor the brilliance and imagination

and grief and lament of Siddiqui and his whole family as they all, whether in poetry or

in their lives, try to work around the grief that they live with.

Learning about constellations by Siddiqui Tsukogi

Today Baha is not dead.

She is 12 years old, sits beside a flower vase, presses her thumb to the clay, her heart

buds into a magnificent sun, waterfalls its warmth all over her satin face.

Taller than all her classmates in the corner she leans her head to white paper, carves

moons out of her notebook while other children sit and listen to the teacher.

The class is learning about constellations.

She takes colors off of flower, folds it to her skin.

...