Memorial Service

Forgiving the living is hard

enough, shrugging away all the wounds

delivered with kisses and curses,

the thousand and one petty slights

that bled me to an albino shade,

that shadow me even in dreams.

But the dead are altogether

another matter, not easily to be

enlightened and quite beyond regretting

anything (as far as we can tell)

and most likely indifferent to

our common currency of tears.

And so it is that pissing on your grave

doesn't please me as much as it ought to.

Now that you have passed beyond

all blaming and shaming, what can I do

but rise and proclaim sincere admiration

when my turn comes around to speak?