I have sat up with the dead
all night, inhaling incense all
night, an attempted illusion
of flowers.
You do not speak ill of the dead, perhaps
out of reverence, or guilt, or
shame, for how important
are the wounds that you hide
compared to what lies before you,
transcendental.
You do not question
the act of passing, or allude to
its resemblance to escape.
And you pick only
the white flowers, carefully
averting your eyes from the red,
for the dead must be
buried in peace, left
without a stain of mortality
at all.
And you hope, maybe then, the dead
will leave you alone.
