my hair is my thing
BY NATALIE SHAPERO
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The symphony’s out of money again, and no
wonder: all those violins, the twisted strands
and sponges—who could not think
of torture? Last week I read a novel about a man
so awful that when he died I wept
because it was fiction. I wanted it to be real
so that he could really die. I wanted
you to die also, and to be feted with a lengthy,
organza-filled funeral, so that I could make
a big show of blowing it off. I decided to go out
and get a tattoo of your funeral with me not there,
but apparently it’s illegal here to tattoo
a person who’s crying. The trend now
is to be interred with beloved possessions:
pearl-trimmed gun, gold watch,
whatever you’ve got. Some people recoil
at the waste of it, but not me. These contused
little objects of wealth—they’re disgusting. I just
pray we have earth and shovels enough. I pray
we have bodies enough to bury them all.
