deepundergroundpoetry.com

Exequiae

my boss sent flowers
thoughtful
I stare at them, knowing
I’ll never remember  
what they look like  
after this moment;
I’m filled to overflowing,
overwhelming  
and I can’t fit  
anything else inside;
my limbs ache,
heavy in their disbelief
 
outside the sanctuary,
I sit, skin humming  
I’m not ready.  
in fight or flight, hovering
between stay and go, go, go -
on the end of a suburban floral sofa
made of industrial fabric
pretending so hard to be something  
close to home
I’m disgusted by its attempt
at normalcy; I’m waiting for nothing  
stunned and stunted
 
I can’t believe she’s gone
I’ll have this thought repeatedly  
all day
 
a deep, stuttered breath
 
I make my way in ten short steps;
from the doorway
I see her face, circa 1978
my dimpled smile
from the comfort of her lap;
they asked for photos
I suddenly didn’t want to share;
the screen is too modern  
for the patina of my memories,
it’s irrational, my anger  
reminiscing
frozen in greyspace
in an upholstered stacking chair;
the turnout is interesting -
I won’t remember them, either
not in whole, anyway
instead, flash photos of faces,
the canned words of condolence
disconnected
 
The service drones on
by a man who didn’t know her
and a dummy urn,
words about some woman
who was definitely not  
my mother; she’d have hated  
the plastic man using the emotion
of her death to manipulate her mourners  
into salvation
I grip my seat to keep from  
bursting forth into hot lava  
and razors  
 
her body is still here,  
in the building somewhere
awaiting her return to ash;  
I saw her yesterday and wish I hadn’t
I spend some time to myself
dissociating, flowing into the macabre  
thoughts I can’t seem to stop having
…I’ll have them for the next year  
 
the after party is always awkward;
I don’t want to have to speak
to anyone, I need space -
I feel rude, close to something
…a coming undone;
I scoop out my words carefully,
don’t want them splashing  
over the edges, rolling  
down my tongue onto the floor;
people don’t know what to say -
their awkwardness inflames me,  
tempered only slightly  
by our universal ignorance  
of the right thing to say
when nothing you say
feels right at all
Written by LunaGreyhawk
Published
Author's Note
Written for the Last Rites competition
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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