Preparation
One month before his death
you had prepared the funeral.
Then we went to the cottage
to bury the old man who was still alive.
In the yard feces of the dog Cerberus
rotten orange peals
blonde garden cockroaches coming
out of the water spouts in the thousands and
in the room thick dust.
I should have imagined it.
My black dress, the veil,
the gloves you forced me to put on
the funereal speech you insisted I learn off by heart
while you, in anger, were asleep and
I alone and naked cried in the director’s chair.
I now observe
I should have imagined it.
