Moving The Body

Here is rigor mortis
of tendon — see
how much board there is now
in the planked body.

How
much rod,
how little child here.
Years of the cane
have tricked out
this hide. All 
the old
is showing.

The dull-brassy,
wear-beaten
body of life’s work
is stretched
here on the blank of bed,
waiting for the attendants
to arrive.

Words knotted
tight in every throat
as family watches
progress of the last care:
the One stripped,
cleaned, gurneyed out to 
black hearse on black asphalt
waiting to black out across
black-rained roads to parlor
and prep.

She was too young for this,
they say.
But not in fact:  after all,
death just means
it’s time.  And her time before
this death
was hard. 

After, all linger.
Won’t move just yet,
in deference
to stiffness witnessed
shortly ago.  

When they leave, at last
the old house
built of good wood
is again empty.