be hovering above
your body after death, a
floating purgatory
which does not desist
when they cover you with dirt, or
make quick cremains of you
you get to hear what others
say when you're gone, first scripted
testimonials, of your laudatory life
later, when the food is being crammed
in overloaded fridges, and the ties and tongues
are loosened, other words emerge:
"he was never good to his wife; you know
he pulled the plug on his father, but wouldn't
let them do the same with him"
"he didn't seem to pass peacefully, all
that labored breathing -- perhaps he was
missing his boy he hadn't seen in years"
"maybe he felt he didn't earn his way
to salvation, or even an end to suffering
of this life of flesh and bone"
and you know not if this is heaven or hell
this place you are doomed to dwell, though you
wish you could now be deaf to these words
an endless biography composed by
all your regrets and transgressions, a book
of your life you would choose to rewrite
but no one, you lament, has that privilege...