Notes on Your Funeral
—for Tony Demarco
1
Mouth open, it all tastes flat.
The stale air, grainy vibe, intermittent
sighing.
The gaping absence swells, blackens,
urging me to edge away from it,
back back back. Not better, man.
—The edible’s kicking in.
Someone pulls a bell rope and ringing
in my ears is more than that.
2
The echoing church reeks of candle wax.
The ancient priest-hands perform
the ritual. Is he speaking Latin?
How is that possible? Italian, perhaps.
I speak Sicilian. Not the same thing.
Genuflect despite bad wheels. Votary
candles gutter soothingly. What harm
in dreaming for the time he takes
to send you to your forever place?
3
Others whisper, turn, nod, simper.
—I don’t recognize you either.
Maybe it’s the light, maybe the fading
memories. Maybe the creeping buzz.
None of you know that I knew him
better than any of you. Maybe that’s not
true; maybe I just played the part.
4
What’s a life but someone’s fiction?
I made you up as we went along.
We made each other up, brother.
Never as great as declared, never as
beautiful or unafraid or strong.
An organ thrums. I dig the sound.
Some sing, despite the absence
of a choirmaster: and as a chalice rises,
scintillant, I lower my shades.
5
How did we come to know you?
Through your words and pretty
gestures? Through the sound
of your high laughter? Your
dancing always made us wince.
And yet we loved your spirit:
where is it now, bro? Did it go
like the rest of you? Everyone
dabs and sniffs. But I feel cold inside.
Maybe I never knew you that way.
Maybe you never knew me.
6
Slatted shades flutter near the exit.
Ventilation whooshes out
a
cool septic essence,
a
formaldehyde freshness
that burns the eyes.
Something that would have
made you die laughing.
7
—Wear this armband
someone in black says.
—Am I mourning? I ask.
Look at all the wreaths, they mean
something, no?
It starts to fucking rain. Of course
it would rain for you. Moisten
the earth for your imminent arrival.
And I thought you wanted cremation,
not a stint as worm feed and grinning
bones coyotes would dig. Fasten your
seatbelt, pal, this’ll be an unlit road.
(Hate myself leaking like the sky: don’t
be hating me for feeling it this hard.
Comes in waves, anyway, and sometimes I
just
laugh. The joke’s on me, somehow, haha.)
—Take this umbrella, man,
someone else in black says.
8
Everything is alien, Tony D;
the idea of you gone too strange
too abrupt, too fucked up.
That smack of reality weakens me now,
body limp, face slack as a skin mask
loosely glued to brow and cheekbones,.
the
edibles an error
I
deeply regret (you must be laughing).
—What’s going on with your
eyes?
someone asks.
I lower my shades and explain
nothing to the waiting silhouette.
9
Everything will be clearer, I think,
in the morning, if we keep
our heads and accept that
our time here is limited and
we’re nothing but performers
who must play out their roles no matter
how small, no matter how brief
the appearance—something
I
have almost come to accept
as I toss a random flower on your casket
and say goodbye to you, my friend,
or perform the act of saying goodbye.
Poet and short story writer Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto. He is the author of five small press books. His work has also appeared in many print and online journals.