Читать книгу Popular Longing - Natalie Shapero - Страница 9

My Hair Is My Thing

The symphony’s out of funding again, and no

wonder: all those violins, the twisted strands

and sponges—who could not think

of torture? Last week I read a novel about a man

so awful that when he died I wept

because it was fiction. I wanted it to be real

so I could watch him really die.

I wanted you to die also, and to be feted

with a lengthy, organza-filled funeral,

so that I could make a big show

of blowing it off. I decided to go out

and get a tattoo of your funeral with me not there,

but apparently it’s illegal here to tattoo

a person who’s crying. The trend now

is to be interred with beloved possessions:

pearl-trimmed gun, gold watch,

whatever you’ve got. Some people recoil

at the waste of it, but not me. These contused little

objects of wealth—they’re disgusting. I just

pray we have earth and shovels enough. I pray

we have bodies enough to bury them all.