Most people say the nicest things
when death shocks them into
contemplation.
Every kindness is recalled
and praised and
and a picture of a life begins to form—
sometimes so abstract it becomes
a caricature of goodness
iced with fond nostalgia.
But Beth, your goodness
was divided and delivered
long before I knew you—
before I married your brother—
who promises it wasn’t really you
who called me on the phone that night
when I heard your voice
insult me in slurred
and disapproving tones.
By then, I knew
I’d only ever know you
post-demons, post-vices,
post-goodness.
All you had left for me were words
that reduced you to this poem—
which to me, a lowly living poet,
was not an entirely wasted
contribution.
DeMaris Gaunt
8-4-15
