when our brother dies, we tie pretty ribbons to our hats
sit in the back of the parlor and pet the funeral home cat
wait til the hot pie is pulled from the oven, baking hot
and touch the fork to our tongue, heat producing snot
running down the front of our cardigans
because its better to make a mess than cry again

when our father dies, we press flowers to his casket
listen to the pastor tell us eternal sins awaits us
while we toss quarters from the ground into the basket
we hold his handkerchief in our hands, must
sniffle into the initials—being ladylike enough to mask it:
the sadness while we adjust

when our husband dies, we lose a sense of self
as we fade impolitely into the wallpaper,
the grievances left for them while i think, too,
did my mother not die last year? her shelf
of books left to me as her mind turns to vapor
and my tears lost to the moon’s view

when i go, it will be nothing of the ceremonies
i witnessed in my life as my pacing was peaceful
(ulcers here, stress scars in my brain,
my knees needed replacing, my hands are coarse)
in comparison to all the bullet holes, the broken necks
because longevity beats short term somehow