There was a tray of sliced
meats, a table of cold salads &
the room was so loud that the
words and voices began mixing
until I could only hear the
thrumming of insect wings &
I ate a plate of buttered white rolls
and iceberg lettuce because there
wasn’t anything substantial for the
non-meat eaters and even most of
the salads contained crumbled
bacon or grilled chicken—
I could only smell chipping paint
and the dampness of basements
& the spilled bag of ice melt
near the front door reminded me
how devoid of moisture I had become,
how the snow and chalky remnants
of winter had taken water and grass
and orchid and nest—
During the service, I heard someone say
I wouldn’t want people to see me like that
and
I’d want to maintain some dignity
as if there’s any dignity in death—