Red plastic poinsettias Poised on molted earth Beneath decay, above stagnation I wonder what it’s worth To respect the dead Would they afford me the same kindness? If i were in their rotted shoe-leather Brittle bones molded over Crushed under earth, melted by weather? To respect the dead They’d muse, foreign shoes, trodding A jogger over my head, a girl Plucks flowers from my wrists, a drunk Pisses on my stone, and hurls To respect the dead Can’t mean their memory if memory means Murmurs, whispers run spine-screeching shivers As she tells me he used to slip in her sheets At six, seven, whenever he could get her Alone. To respect the dead Somehow the phrase forgets to follow We, who are left behind
Respect for the Dead
Plastic flowers outlast kindness, but not doubt.
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