Poem 7

Funeral Procession I

Carry her through the streets.
Wrap her in four-point gauze.
Throw the sun-glazed confettii
into the canopy of music,
of weeping, of singing, of
old hands sweeping strings
For she brought a populist God
to his knees.
She broke his
paintbrushes over the backs of
his lovers hidden in siennas,
lapis, thick modernist lines.
She pulled a small death from her
body, not once, but twice,
and carried it on her shoulders
and still stands, she does stand
an iron-backed woman, with
steady eyes and a canvas heart.