Identify the body?
That’s not him.
Well of course it is.
It looks as if he’s sleeping.
But she’s not hearing any breath.

Pick out a coffin?
Is that like picking out a parlor set?
And who offers cremation?
Mm, telephone directory—
          under body burning maybe.

And how many tears should she shed.
          Not enough
          and she didn’t love him.
          Too many
          and it’s her pain
          that she’s in love with.
Do wet cheeks go with black?
Who does she call?
Who does she invite?
Why does everyone at the funeral parlor
speak so softly?

And who gets to wash and dress the body?
          The body—
          the thing that is him
          yet is not him.
The thin balding man
who looks like death?
Or his son,
half a foot taller,
but who bows his head so low
he only comes up
to his father’s chin?

          Will they show proper respect?
          And if it really isn’t him
          what does that matter?

The priest. The priest.
Which priest? She doesn’t know any priests.
But someone has to say “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
It would sound unfeeling or just plain dumb
          if she says it.

It’s all his fault. Why did he have to die first?
He must have known he’d leave her with a body.
And she’d have to identify it.
A whole new way of looking at him.
And just his sleeping to prepare her.