The high end of a medium low

Everyone brings flowers for the dead.

The flowers are dead, too.

Even if they don’t know it yet.

You’ll feel better once you wash your face.

Maybe, step out for a nip. You could

use some air and time away

from all those prayers

being whispered to the floor.

We each have our own relationship with death.

How many hands do you think have reached

across the back of that oak pew in front

to cup the shoulders of grief in the aftermath?

How many wails still echo in these mortuary walls?

I swear I’ve lost count, myself.

The work is slow,

like poison

or whiskey,

set somewhere between

anathema and absolution. You know,

most people will do just about anything to belong.

Maybe that’s the big fear,

that one day no one will recall even the shape

of your name. That's when your mind gets set

on dying. It's enough to make any of us

crack. Like it always wasn’t anyone

but you. To be set down

in a sulfur pool. To boil

like an egg.