I Saw the Light

We'll sweep up the ashes in the morning

—Gram Parsons

Just wing it—

doused in whisky, disguised

in flammable polyester

as a funeral director,

the hearse you hijack

will drag the stolen coffin

to the desert, sparing the body

being flown home

to Louisiana, there buried—

the deceased wanted

to be burned, someone overheard.

The ripening remains.

The reaping goes

on without us

seeing—no longer do we bathe

our own dead.

Busy yourself,

being not yet buried—

The body you steal

may well be your own—

In my hour of darkness

in my time of need

buy a six pack, and gasoline

enough to get you

there, enough to pour

down the thirsty throat

of death—soaking the body

beleaguered, bet against—

your garments rent.

Beg the light

to linger. The blaze you build

will shine the night

like a shoe—

a thin wick

against the dark.

If heaven, if anything

after, then

it too burns bright—

for a time—