Lit

I hold the memorial for you at our house.

Three hundred people domino

up and down the stairs

and the hallways.

There is a white tent outside for overflow

and a firepit that the kids throw soda cans into.

Flowers, photos, your mountain bikes,

your skateboards on the front lawn,

wheels still rolling.

You used to say –

This is my forever home,

and the only way I am leaving

is if I die!

When I used to say – I’m going to kill you!

You would say – Good! I won’t have to go to work tomorrow!

Funny.

This is where you lived and died.

Right here. Right here –

I take so many meds

to avoid collapse,

but I am not high.

I am numbed out

to the winding line of mourners.

But this is not a funeral,

this is your final send-off.

The boys call it “daddy’s party.”

I call it a Catholic Shiva for a Punk Atheist.

You are echoing in all the alcoves

and, death, I can smell your body wash.

Babe, I buried your ashes

under the Buddha in the yard.

Babe, I burned you

like the Viking King you are.