Three poems on dying

for Nola

White Wine in the Sun

I cry for you,
near Christmas.

Your favourite song is playing¹
and I’ve barely slept.

So, as I drive by your house—
where you lie dying—
and I’m not welcome—

the sobs rise up.

I’m coming to your funeral

I’m coming to your funeral.
Not even your iron will
will stop me then.

I’m coming to your funeral, so
you might as well
receive me now.

As you lay dying

As you lay dying,²
did you think of me?

Did you wish aftermaths
had fallen out differently?

Or were you still filled
with that bitter gall of hate—

the bladder that
hastened your demise?

1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCNvZqpa-7Q ↩︎
2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/As_I_Lay_Dying ↩︎