Funeral Arrangement

I hang over this skin-bound puddle of formaldehyde
so that you might take comfort in the view
of your beloved corpse, caked
in unnatural hues of powdery rose
while my petals still flourish with supple pink.
The cut, I admit, is deep –
I will probably not last the week – but
it is not apparent in my stem’s graceful arc.
The body below shows more decay,
emitting strange sterile odors from
a cold metal casket. It must be buried today,
and so you are all gathered here.
A petal falls, a fluttering little flake of my flower,
and lands with less than a tap on the tip of the nose,
and nothing happens.

Somewhere, in a forest or garden, a small shoot
takes root in the soil, awaiting spring.
There is where the beauty is real,
where buried things thrive, where he is alive.