You picture dead bodies like porcelain dolls in neat rows, but final death throes are ugly.

She vomited black like coffee grounds in her final days, they'll

label it neglect in transparent italic whispers tucked in between the lillies.

Life support pulled in the in-between hours of night and day in

an empty room, who held the plug while she drifted away?

Death is estranged daughters punching white walls in wake of words they can no longer say

(Think I broke my pinky, but it don't look broke)

it's hospital security standing in on family confrontations,

teeth at necks and blame being used as blunt force trauma.

And they'll argue about how the body will lay, "she wanted cremation" and

"convenient that's the cheapest way to go."

When the sun sets they'll apologize and wish to the younger eyes

that they didn't have to see the ugly bits and

the funeral home will push them out in the end because ugly as it is, some things

wear more haggard faces than death.