as an undertaker
you grow accustomed to death
respect his place within the layers of being
certainly fear him more than most
over time we realize how random
his judgement
and unreasonable the damage done
by his heavy hand
as we drain the blood
and our innocence along with it
how tenuously our human cells hold together
yet the way we fight to go on
despite the inevitability
of ending
questioning the point of all this suffering
as you place the receiving blanket in the coffin
or put the last curls into the eight year old girl’s hair
the motorcycle crash was a closed casket service
but his mother decided before we placed him in the hearse
she had to see his jawless face
someone’s nana covered in bed sores
who lingered too long to suit her family’s liking
the suicide who dealt with his wife’s affair
by removing the back of his head with a .45
you learn to have dinner with death
sharing a bottle of scotch with his dead sockets and wicked grin
in the hopes that laboring over his body count
will keep your own bones
from owing coins to the ferryman
and at the end of the day
as you’re cleaning up the embalming room
back turned to the finished work of a life on the table
sterilizing trocar needles and scalpels
the sounds they emit
as the gas escapes
somewhere between a moan and a sigh
coming through the vocal chords
you hear the last sound their voice ever makes
