Coping.

I

entering that foreign room,
stinking of tainted bleach,

eyeing the sofas and chairs,
unsatisfied with the knowledge
that these furnishings had once cushioned other grievers,

i most past picture arrangements
and sympathy flowers.

scattered among the tissue boxes
and hallmark cards,
i see your body, on display.

i sit down,
wondering when the celebration will begin.

II

i hug the standing minister,
her stomach against my face.

"he used to talk about you all the time,"
she nods,
squinting down at me,
flushed with emotion.

"what did he say?"
i ask,
with the timidity
of the mouse haunted
by the defeated lion.

"he said,"
she pauses.

my cheeks redden
as her face goes blank,
the reflection of the near-by lamp
in her glasses
blocking any view of her eyes.

"he said he was very proud of you."

i nod,
stare at my shoes,
and sink back
into the chair.

III

the january night
seething with unresolution,

patting our backs
as we turn
from the brick building--

offering nothing
of the dead--

the cars stare at us
with man-made indifference.

still, we squeeze into them,
our escape,

the feel of leather
upholstery reminding us

we are the ones still alive.