The Homecoming

The Homecoming

Black dress dark rose and tears

death is dark, black like tar.

It is night without a moon

clouds on edge of exploding,

is there a lesson in staring

at the waxed corpse arms crossed?

Children have nightmares

grandpa’s corpse doesn’t move to soothe

his grandchild’s request to play,

dark suited men smile blankly

as a man in cloth repeats last week’s prayer.

Bless this man with his very own closet.

Bless his embalming and fine haircut

all dressed up to rot like his new neighbors.

Homecoming presents of carnations and queen’s lace

death imitates life without exchange of words

without the ohs and ahs once found in breathing.

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