Last Rites, and: We Thought "O", and: The Baboon Spirits of the First Hour of the Night

Last Rites

While everyone watched,
I popped off the top
of the recycled yogurt cup,
lifted the gold-trimmed shot-glass
out of its nest of Kleenex,
rolled off the rubber-band,
unwrapped the Saran wrap,
pulled one of the lollipop-sticked
hospital swabs out of the bag
on the bedside table,
dipped the miniature green sponge,
the size of a piece of bubble-gum,
into the topaz liquid
that I had conjured up
when we were home at lunch
(and Margaret had approved,
and Mother had poured
and Lynn had wrapped);

I wiped the sponge once on the lip
of the shot-glass
then raised it to your mouth
that opened freely,
swam it around your gums, over your
teeth, across your tongue,
and Margaret said, "Look,
he likes that," and I am not so sure
you knew anything,
but I tasted the familiar smell
that meant "6:00, Dad's home,"
and Mother said, "Wait till the hospice
nurse gets a whiff of single malt,"
and everyone laughed,
and I leaned down and kissed
your damp cheek
and knew we had done the best thing
to see you off.

We Thought "O"

Because you looked
just unwrapped,
we thought mummy –
and we were
the archaeologists,

and, because, shut tight,
your eyes looked
extra wise,
we thought Confucius;

then, transfixed
by your rigid mouth,
we thought O,
and breathed in
and out.

The Baboon Spirits of the First Hour of the Night

I arrive at sunset, walk the length of the necropolis,
cross the sanctuary under the pylon, to get to you.

I dig until the wall crumbles, my eyes blinded
by the shimmering contents of your antechamber.

I brush past oblong treasure boxes stacked like loaves,
gold-plated chariots, a fleet of boats;

I climb your tall wood couch, float
among vases, coffers, cups, bottles, baskets.

I fancy the bead shoes and linen gloves
and wear your clothes like skin. I do not rest.

Even in the dim, I sense your lapis and obsidian,
your ebony and alabaster, your eyes, your nose,

your airy gut sweetened with palm-wine,
then stuffed with cassia bark and crushed myrrh.

From a dusty corner, I fish up an animal-headed
walking stick, steer down seamless corridors

smelling of olive and willow, the blue lotus of sorrow.
I read the writing on the wall;

I know you are here, bathed in unguents, wound
in linen tucked with diadems, daggers, amulets –

bathed, wrapped and nested in gold coffins,
guarded by baboons – twelve dignified tempera gods,

facing north, tails erect, resting on haunches,
to see you through this time when first is last

and last is first, to see you through this hour.