Dies Illa
Elisabeth Murawski
It's modern, graveside,
to shield the bereaved,
postpone the final
to shield the bereaved,
postpone the final
creak of straps till after
the limos leave. Not so
cremation's nascent
protocol: mourners at the wall
must bear the squeak
of lazy iron fly
crawling up marble, a digger
in a jumpsuit astride
the lift's tiny platform,
in his hands the precious
bronze cigar box
carried like a lunch.
The director calls "it"
John, as if indeed my brother
lived there, poured
in lumps like sugar or salt,
small as Alice post-drink.
He is placed, stuck to rest
in peace, the niche so high
it's hard to read names,
the refrain "What is John?"
like an answer in reverse
playing Jeopardy,
haunting and tormenting.
