Anatomy of a Funeral
 

Black beetles converge in distress. One
long prose prayer, recited during the lowering
of heads; tilting of the brain seems to stir
memories, the eyes vomit tears down
the contour of puffy cheeks. It’s spring
and as the dead reaches towards his 6ft.
destination, sunflowers are rising, their hands
waving in the breath of afternoon,
their scent absent in the clogging
of mourners’ disabling cries.

Anatomy of Awakening

Sensei Sun lances through weak windows,
solving the brittle lock of sleeping eyes.
The oval mouth leaks fecal matter
or kin to its scent atop Egyptian cotton. Eyes
silently stutter, flutter like dragon fly wings.
Neighbors cuss at loud cars and spill coffee
on the reflective polish of black wingtips.
Dogs bark, chase their curved tails in a dunce act.
The body inside the four walls of farness,
from those beginning their day, experiences
the question: The barren front of the TV,
on, off, or housing a stark gray impressionist
painting?

Anatomy of Night

The good mothers have laid their babies down softly.
Dreams are cocked. Fathers are out, drunk
or an ounce away, staggering or sitting
sideways in smokers’ insipid exhales.
Trees are focused on drawing husky
shadows: bending atop parked cars
or lying flat on watered lawns—
and as for the birds, they’re flying, cutting
lanky lines into the body of night’s soul.

Anatomy of Shaving

The face must be washed,
a turning of the back on the unsanitary.
Laid out like resting baby ducks
atop the countertop: razor, cream,
mug, and brush. Polygamy takes place:
the face, narcissist, king waiting to take
his harem: cream to mug to brush to face,
ending in the mirror’s staring reflection.
The razor becomes artist—
each three-inch stride across the neck
and cheeks, takes away, making sculpture
out of marble, man out of beast. The face
must be washed, a closing of the pores takes
place, signifying closure of the act.

©Felino Soriano 2006