Michael Chitwood

He was good at God-damning,
swell at giving hell,

which is, admittedly, easier
than giving heaven,

but to be really good at it
takes practice,

a churning choice of words
that must be angrily controlled,

no mean feat that,
and pronounced in heat

but not shouted,
as the tempered tone

makes it all the more hammering
and so much more so cursed

than blessed could ever be.
 

It was her wish,
in the old tradition,
that someone sit up
with the body,

so it wouldn't be alone
when most alone.

But maybe that's not right,
maybe that's when most present,
the still, rigid bolt of it there,
a charge to the living.

No way to know
in those silent, deep hours.

Not a job for kin.

Congregants,
who'd seen her mostly once a week,

came in two-hour shifts,
splitting up the night
as was her wish
to keep the body company,

the body's desire
through the very quiet night.