It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even
present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's
wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano,
posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity
and a tragedy, both. As are ours. And perform the
history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's
waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the
huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never
to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly
behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the
after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by
community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent
partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route,
shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or
hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she
was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and
evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the
generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same
law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a warrior's jawbone
or armor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem