Sunday #11

Rituals


Bird Disposal

A silhouette against the setting sun, the colors draining,
collecting upon the horizon, leaving a dull foreground
of black metal bars, cold grey concrete, and the muted,
silent feathers of the immobile pigeon, motionless beneath
the railing of my balcony, staring towards the west.

I grabbed a broom, quietly, with respect for the dead's final
sunset, waited for the sun to pass the distant trees and,
with a tentative poke, tried to dislodge the recently deceased,
but found the task too difficult for tenderness, so I steeled
myself for a more assertive strike against the fading gray body.

The jab of the broom handle landed squarely, shifted the bird
slightly and, as the sun extinguished its light beneath the distant
sea, the feathers began to flap, the pigeon hopped around, alive,
a miracle above the city, until it took a final step off the balcony
and fell, again just a pile of dirty feathers for someone to clean.


The Temporary Resurrection of Fagilyu

I am reminded of those Victorian fears
treated by elaborate machines poking
through the fresh earth, topped by a bell,
and the calm, besuited gentleman
entombed and slowly announcing
his life to the mistaken outside world.
What chorus if all the dead returned
and rang out through empty graveyards?

She attended her own funeral, locked
away in a coffin, thought gone
and returned screaming, an honest reaction
far removed from the calm ringing of bells.
No slender machines, just a heart
stopped by the realization that everyone
already assumed her first death was a final one.


Twin Roses

Roses lifted from coffins separated by feet,
at ceremonies separated by years,
together still, though withered and dead--

and there were other flowers, too, not kept--
those purchased because one died shortly
after St. Patrick's Day and they arrived

at the funeral home, white and dirty green,
recycled leftovers from a verdant celebration,
falsely festive and gaudy against the others

sitting at the base of an open coffin, morose
shades drawn from the once-living cheeks
now twisted in formaldehyde serenity.