it’s not that I am taken aback
nor am I anguished

I had done my mourning
the funeral was quiet,
myself and the proctor alone on the loose dirt, water, and grass

I sat on the biting, soggy ground
the mud and my feet creating suction
I thought it might agree to take me, too

and I swore
that I would never let another
be taken by that heavy, wanting earth

in your Golden happy after
it is clear to me: that death was justice.
almost as if the hands of fate slapped my own
scolding me for squandering what they
had worked so hard to bestow

a home, a family.
the names you had to avoid
with the minty aftertaste of liquor
weaving through the strands of air
that carried them

I will take my share to my grave,
when the time comes.

you may not believe that much is owed.

I do.