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…