I don’t know how it should work,
driving down the South West highway, thinking your
bundle of flesh and bones is in cold storage somewhere
while we race back through the heat to help make
arrangements
I think of the thin pile of you
stacked against beige pillows and us trying
to rearrange you
prop you on your spine in front of your
white cut sandwiches, crusts off
blinking as you ate them slowly like a tired child
your hair, always perfectly set
(audience or no) kept bothering you
tenderly I stroked it into a bun
and I think you were glad though
you thought I was my mother, ‘Jan’ you said
Christmas and we left you
alone in that cubicle
worrying about the spider
behind the light
Christmas and we left you
inserted between pastel screens
we three believing we had
little choice
at the door we forgot the code to
get out and laughed saying
‘imagine we could not leave.’
