by Kevin McAuley


I am wheeling the dead woman upright
In her iron death-cart. She is
Strapped in and her eyes do not shake. They said I could
use the grave
Beside the red and yellow poppies,
But I am color blind and flowers are confusing.

The mourners never saw her before in their Lives. They
are foreigners with nothing Better to do. They walk
stoop-shouldered Around us, murmuring a chant in a
language Constructed around a myth about three Herons
and a scotchbread which are transformed By a clock with
divine mental powers into Flying castles and a woman
with a Magic ring around her ankle.

The mourners moan and cry and sprinkle her With dark
grass and twigs and burn
A roll of philosophical incantations. Nothing they do
consoles me. I would Rather be alone with the dead than
learn One more odd thing about their cold


Poem copyright © 1995 Kevin McAuley.



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