It takes 10 minutes in front of the urn
to realize what it is; the gravel of her
unbody in a pink casing she might have picked
out herself. There is no viewing, no open casket,
only farewell to dust. You wonder her weight,
how its whole could pack into a space
fit for hands. Oh the less that might have shown
had you seen her. This disease. How much
it might have taken of flesh in the months leading
up to here. You, retired witness. Evidence of pricks
like collagen for fingers’ binding. Anger’s acidity,
her mother’s voice on the phone. Density
of knowledge, choice of distance. Now, the gone,
the after before you. Here sits the epiphany. 22 is still.
The streets frozen over, November, winter already.
You swirl intention in your swollen mouth. Raw,
the teeth have chewed the gums that carry
them. When you step back from the altar, the floor
cracks. The walls of the funeral home fall
backward. Somewhere, you hear her
cackling. The curtain drops, a bow. She loved
Performance. To tease the maybe, glide
against edges, storm of a girl. To dance on
the border between, to be almost and then not
at all. A question has never been a question
until now. What did it feel like in the seconds
of? How quick was the sand to fall over? On this
church morning, Christmas is soon. In the center:
a framed smile, her face on the memoriam card.
Who knows is a tourniquet for the intestine.
In the evening, its grip tightens.
