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They come out of the woodwork
after years of terse hellos
and cursory nods,
and their children just stare
from the front lawns.
The relatives are allowed inside
and tolerated for their want of
giving consolation.
Some of them come even after
years of infighting,
and feign surprise at those
who chose to stay away.
A death is a death,
always the same but sometimes
with a twist; this time
with spice enough for the neighbors
to gossip imaginings of alcoholism or,
these days, sexual preference.
The aunts and uncles are thinking
he had it coming someday
but copped out early.
They all cry by degrees
in mandatory fashion,
each considering their due.
I remember my own parents' passing,
together actually, and the
damp dark smell of the old braided rug
in the living room,
soaking up the salt from our tears
and spitting back wisps of old age
and forgotten footsteps.
Today, who knows what this fertile
carpet might hatch?
Now all the talk moves to those
antiseptic terms, "arrangements"
"procedures", and finally
"investigation",
each dutied son remarking in rank and role.
Someone mentions the newspapers
and how to play it discreetly.
I had a dog once as a girl
for only a day,
before the school bus driver
accidentally ran him over,
and after school I was spared
the ache of burial
from the ritual street cleanings
of city workers.
So I was left to wonder.
Tomorrow they say I must sign
the paperwork, not to worry,
but now I must get some rest
to have some tea and lie down.
Their words blend to sighs
as I close the door.
Perfectly solid,
my flesh feels heavy and thick
like the dark meat of a turkey leg.
Warm enough, warm enough I will be tender,
my housecoat flowing like brown gravy.
These satin sheets box me in,
tight as a glove against my skin.
Now going away, going up,
floating alone,
all alone,
and feeling suddenly a stranger
in my own bed,
my own mind.
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