We are Born Again as Gods

Why do we deify our dead?
Right from the shock of a slap  
on the back of the child to start  
the motor that purrs, hums, snores,  
  
right from the rupture,  
surfacing blind from placenta,  
from the gift of first gasp,  
human begins the decay,  
   
the decline to grey and hobble,  
the blackening of lung and liver,  
the shattering of hipbone,  
stubbornness of breathing falters,  
   
the breath one cannot hold  
for a minute is held forever,  
cavities are now a stage  
for the miracle of maggots,  
   
bluish purple body blued and purpled  
by duties and loves and travels  
whose only function now  
is to push up daisies quietly.  
   
On the day of dirges, the day  
he becomes the late and lamented,  
they grant him the sight and hearing    
of a god to bug and bother.  
   
He is prayed to and implored  
to keep an eye on the needful,  
on the errant sheep, what  
he could not do hereabouts,  
   
his presence is sworn real  
by the suspicion of burning candles,  
black butterflies, shadows  
felt only peripherally.  
   
He is summoned as gods    
are normally summoned,    
during crises and distress,  
loss of a job, illness, or when  
   
wishing ill upon another,  
he is not alive but sufficiently god  
to run to, haul complaints    
about family to.  
   
We enthrone our new dead  
as Chinese forbears did when offered    
the crucified by the white conquerors,  
we nudge the other gods aside,  
   
to give the new one, the erstwhile  
surly elderly, flesh and blood,  
estranged or remembered sorely,  
space on the altar inside us.  
   
Our dead are born again as gods,  
standing shoulder-to-shoulder  
with the cross-legged and bearded,  
with benevolence and buddha,  
   
our dead, they give more solace  
by being the gods we know,  
the gods we have broken bread with,  
parleyed and partook of wine with,  
   
we pray for bias, for our claims,  
for a good word with the boss.