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After the Funeral

Holly Day

it’s become a contest of who knew first
who first found out how and when he or she died
who was closest, who has the best story. we get ugly
in our nostalgia, tread a difficult balance between
preserving the subject’s sudden sainthood
while expunging our most pointed, painful, awful memories
find some way to say we should have seen it coming
express surprise that it took so long.

afterwards, we each retreat to our private musings
on how if things had been different
it could have been any one of us
it should have been someone else. there’s a dark, uncertain target
over everyone we know now, ready to move on
who will be next.

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