Final Rites
my faith evaporated with the steam rising out
from the lake at dawn when I touched the shell
of my mother and there was nothing left of her.
That morning, I learned prayers don’t go past
the ceiling: they fall back into the maggots
suffocating in the coffin beside my mother.
wood, flesh, fly husks, her cotton floral
dress churns back into the earth, and
bubbles up as grass, wildflowers,
nitrogen in the soil singing rebirth
until the sun engorges herself and
swallows our little blue home,
until we join the chorus of stars
becoming and unbecoming,
our traumas compressed
so deep down anyone
could mistake us
for black holes
who were
never
here
at all.
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