To be placed in saint’s clothing as if death redeemed
The unresolved battles that forced childhood screams
From the mouths of his children starvation abounds
For the three little words that nary met sound
From his lips that lay silent and poison the earth
From his violent life that began with his birth
There will be no clock hands stopped in his honor
No looking glasses covered now that he’s a goner
There will be no wailing with heartbeats bereft
Absent black cotton gloves like W. H. Auden suggests
No kerchiefs stained with tears to be tucked into pockets
No loving memories or pictures in lockets
No words of compassion for the soul left to cry
That embraced angry notions and turned a blind eye
There are no clothes befitting to cover his bones
He chose life without love. He perished alone.
What clothes shall be placed on the dead deemed unworthy?
While he is yet considered unfit by the clergy.