*
when dad died they
clothed him for funeral
his hands so beautiful
crossed over his chest
they were the only thing
talking of him to me
I took a picture my
relatives anger rose
I could not avoid that
I haven’t seen it once
that picture it’s hiding
away to be gazed at on
a day when I’ll accept
distance or enjoy
closeness where
will my hands
go when I die
not on my chest
nor on my belly
for that short
time of the viewing
a sense of lack
of no more breath
a heaviness not favoring
digestion nor straight aside
as a soldier of whose army
.
.
.
.
.