Hated us, as we bickered in front of the casket.
He said often he’d seen familial debris
unknowingly flex its muscles to coax any racket,
so the dead can rise and pry
apart our clenched teeth.
Said he’s witnessed the wreckage leak the blame game.
Explained that when the deceased
explode into the light, all the crazies
dissolve into one pocket of space, backlit
and defiled. He hated us because he knew
we were petty gelatin. That one day we’d be dead too
and the hue of incrimination would be transmitted
and final. The funeral director was glad to see us go.
He knew the dead man would be better off.