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.