If only the living could understand grief,
the passing of death wouldn’t be such a camouflage.
How do I know?
many a wake I’ve mended,
many a charnel house, I’ve tended;
all in tarried transience—
there, pensive melancholy births a bastard tenacity
with the fury of purpose, midwifed by an indifference
as cold as a mortician’s table.
And as graceful as a hearse;
I’ve propelled this still frenzy
this siren song of despair, with labored gravity.
they keen, on the wake of false eulogies
eyes singed, drowning with pious tears—
the young widow—beautiful with her
make-up of tears and snort
I see doves spring from the sagging dunes
of mascara tears, back-dropped against
oases of wreaths, more sallow than
the deacon’s leery intentions for her.
they sigh as though they’re the nostrils
of the departed—
scores and gambling debts speak from beyond the death certificate…