Dies Illa
Elisabeth Murawski
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.

