-I-
Your urine on the floor, father,
and my fingertips,
cleanses my soul
and sears my lips.
-II-
Your body is not yet dry, father,
Still, the
dead-washers clamor for their pay.
In this country, father, they will
continue
to gnaw at you
long
after you are dead.
Necrophagia is the order of the day,
and everybody’s a cannibal.
-III-
This was your mother's own grave, father.
In our rush, we accidentally step
on her skull.
There is no more cotton in your
mouth now,
nor
in your nostrils, or your ears.
The remnants of your soul are free
to ooze out of you now,
just as dirt is free to pour in.
Whose skull will we step on next,
father?
Mother's?
Mine?
-IV-
Standing next to your grave, father,
your head beneath my
feet,
I
can kiss the dirt, father,
I can finally weep.