Of this parish

 

The audacity of it: to compose one’s own epitaph.

I shall be lucky so much to choose my spot,

If they even find me: but imagine the matriarch,

Her long-held life inflicting chiseled words

And casting stones about her, only in death

Still keeping both. For her it may have been

The final breath, a whisper set in stone,

Mother Forever. But in its secret truth

It is the sole discretion of the mason’s client

That shuts that mouth, lowers her lids and,

As the mason poises his chiseled words,

Plunges the nail.

 

 

 

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