~MARK CONWAY~

HAVING GONE TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

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The Romans had a way
of talking to the dead: bring them
       a bowl of blood. 
But the blood
must be warm, which means
it must be yours.

Holding the long-
desired face between numb
hands that can’t feel shit 
is difficult for some to take—others

find the whole scene over-
done.  May I ask
what you would do,
given the chance?

          For the luxury-
minded Romans,
of course their hell
      is cold, maybe    
I could go down there; that may be
my kind of suffering.  It’s true  

I’ve always wanted
to know my brother, the one
just ahead of me,
the one with a talent 
for disappearing before
he could be interviewed: he was
there, he wasn’t
there.

Now that he’s through
the three doors,
the Romans think he’s 
     one of theirs: 
we washed out the house,
we sang over the remains,
we processed to the field.

Now that’s done,
his body is no longer confused
with his soul—even
a Roman theologian would agree:
my brother’s dead, to us,
and to Rome. 
                            We helped him
through the doors. 

© by Mark Conway