Gingerly

The funeral is on Thursday
I hate the idea of Crematoria
I don't know why a burnt body
is any worse than worms
but to me it is
and always has been
gone is gone
after all

I can stretch to thinking
resurrection of the body
if it is in one place
but not scattered
wherever ashes are scattered
Somewhere God is sighing
imagining putting infinite bits of DNA together
like paper from the shredder.
Supposing he sighs and says
"can't"
wouldn't that be a bitch
My imagination has stayed
pre Bronze Age
I obviously want to bury with
grave goods and a spear

On Friday
my Mother, the widow
comes for Christmas

I have bought
a soft jumper
hotwaterbottle
and a book

It isn't just no husband
she faces
but a move from all she knows
to come here
a tenant no longer a Chatelaine
tentative,supplicant
or to a flat in a block full
of strangers

If she did come here
we would shop together
go to plays
do things at school
and I
would always be in the wrong

We will move gingerly
around all of it.
and hit the sherry