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Instructions for Mourners
It’s meant to be silent
We hope, that like the dead girl we can just disappear to the back of the room, and unmake the world
But we have breathe and she doesn’t
So we wander first to the liquor cabinet
Or to the fridge
And then we walk around the room
Spraying from our mouths words that smell like wilting flowers; a perfume of roses and mustard gas for everyone we meet
There’s nothing to say after a massacre
So we stick to saying that
And then other things
'Gorgeous day out'
'She would’ve loved to see it'
As if she just couldn’t make it to her own funeral
Anyway, she preferred the rain
I used to be sentimental
Pouring out sorrows as if they tasted like s***
Sometimes I still think they do
I used to lament
Heaving and retching
Thinking about all the people who don’t get a poem or a prayer
Or worse, the ones who get buried in them
I used to be a rationalist
But there’s little comfort in being a bed for maggots
So now I’m a letter writer
I sent a letter to my friend the other day
After watching the news about Iraq
And I asked her if we were dropping bombs
And she told me no, where just standing behind the ones who are
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