Aren't reborn into the core of earth's womb
Like they used to be
Fire and commotion and chanting
The dying used to whither into other worlds, witnessed by weeping lovers wounded
by their woe.
Now we walk down cold hollow halls with the echo of metrically beeping heart
monitors and rhythmically sighing breathe machines
After we are found dead, we are toe tagged and zipped up and transported and
exposed and drained and cleaned and made up.
-----
Weary.
We file down the isles of the church, bagpipes moaning "Oh Danny Boy," brothers
and sisters sniffling phlegm through their nostrils and back down into their chests.
My mother pulls her bug-eyed shades down her forehead, wipes her nose with her
linen tissue.
Green leaves crusty around the edges from the bubbling lava sun turn me dizzy
from walking, leaning back, and looking up at the same time.
I remember the green skirt and ugly sandals we bought before we flew to New Orleans.
At the funeral, the embroidered wrap hugged child's thighs and forming hips.
I stumbled in the wooden heel of each sandal and straps of leather bound my ankles.
