Friday, at a California Church

She speaks, but all I hear is Boston,

edgy accents jut through her story,

of how she used to beautify

The dead, and how she loved

doing makeovers. Death never looked

so put together, or how the body waits

for nothing, and still manages to sigh.

They told her this would happen,

this release of the body, the settling in:

Her, new at the job, and them, the dead,

both forfeit to the finality. Her fingers offer

fruits of color: outline, blend, highlight.

~

At the church, I empty the wastebaskets,

in counseling rooms, carry bags of tissue

clouds, and toss a white sky into the dumpster

of what’s left behind: tears, loss, regret.

And, I think of you, and leave my body to travel

the spine of California—the greatest distance

is between our two points. Forfeits kill the forthcoming;

the season of waiting finally sighs out, and desire

reminiscences for the passing of thinly-weaved love.