i just think it’s (kinda) funny how
the priest speaks of my parents
in many ways; though the undertaker
speaks in one. strangers smell the scent
of adult orphan as I sit in the lost
parent’s row: leather stitched seats,
beautiful enough to bury us all in.
we’re all in love in this cathedral
with memories of the loved
who cannot love back. my parents lie
back in that casket: mouth open, eyes
wide & defiant. they take it all in.
there’s a spectacle under this roof:
we all laugh & laugh & laugh.
don’t you dare call that dead.