Dressing for the Burial

“No one wants to talk about the hilarity after death— the way the week my brother shot himself, his wife and I fell on the bed laughing because she couldn’t decide what to wear for the big day, and asked me, “Do I go for sexy or Amish?” I told her sexy. And we rolled around on the mattress they’d shared for eighteen years, clutching our sides. Meanwhile, he lay in a narrow refrigerated drawer, soft brown curls springing from his scalp, framing his handsome face. This was back when he still had a face, and we were going to get to see it. “Hold up the black skirt again,” I said. She said, “Which one?” And then she said, “You look so Mafia Chic,” and I said, “Thank you,” and it went on until we both got tired and our ribs hurt and now I don’t even remember what we wore. Only that we both looked fabulous weeping over that open hole in the ground. …”

Bonfire Opera. Poems by Danusha Lameris