The day after A’s funeral, hoping I never again have to encounter the creepiness and bad taste of a South African funeral parlour. That formaldehyde hush and Jolene, Jolene’ playing in the foyer.
In contrast, recalling Emily Dickinson:
After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?
.
The Feet, mechanical, go round –
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –
.
This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
pause to intercept 