he posts the pics–
i see frowns,
utter unhappiness.
i wonder if it’s her wedding day.

is he vying for irony
or truly emotional,
having known her
better than i?

i won’t ask
as we morbidly look over her
eighty-nine-year-old skin,
as we put forth a fake eulogy
from the minister’s mouth,
as we place her in the tomb
beside her
fourteen-years-dead husband.

i will feel the hollowness
of every death,
every lonely old death
seep through the tears
of my mother and aunts,
wondering when the tables will turn,
when it will be their turn
mine
and if the radiant smile
from my wedding pic
will glow across the display,
words lost to all who enter?