Triptych (Art is in the room at her own funeral)

One

Art is in the room at her own funeral

watching the procession

watching the wailers

stalking the hors d’oeuvres

wondering whose poor mother

or wife

or sister

or daughter

or muse

they will bury instead of her.

Art does not recognize the body in the coffin.

She sneers at the closed eyes, at the slack face,

at the beautiful-dead-girl in tragic repose

that’s been out of style since Ophelia.

She asks herself How can anyone think this is me?

I would never be so passive.

I wouldn’t be caught dead.

Art is laughing at her own joke,

Art is taking the front seat at her own eulogy,

If no one looks at her, Art will make them.

Two

There’s half a eulogy left to go

and Art is getting restless.

She stands up. You can all see me, can’t you?

The euloger drones on

about how powerful

and rebellious

and inspiring

she was.

Art wants nothing more

than to smack him in the mouth.

She resorts to waving her arms,

jumping up and down,

screaming Hello! It’s me! I’m the deceased!

The only reactions

are muted sniffles

and the euloger’s continued spiel

about how she made room for everyone;

about how all who knew her loved her,

even when they didn’t see eye to eye—

and she rarely saw eye to eye

with anyone;

about her ferocious distaste for the status quo,

about her beauty

and wisdom

and wit

and spirit,

but now she is dead, he laments,

and we will never see another like her again.

Art wants to scream,

knowing even as she does

that it will do her no good here.

Three

Art disappears from the ceremony.

She cannot bear to watch them lower

this stranger into the ground.

She gnashes her teeth and riots at the prospect

of being a guest at her own dinner.

Art steals away, like a witch in the night,

out the window of a funeral parlor.

She is going where she is wanted.

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