A Wake in the Mourning

Grandma Irene, mother of three, wife, painter, Saint of Laughs
She’d tell the family of a time
And the room became bright
Watching or not, she danced
Generous does understate
Hold her hand and she knows we relate
«Be smart,» she said, «You're our favorite thing.»
Ceremonies can’t hold, all our moments
And unwritten poems
She said, «You're soft, like a butterfly’s wing.»
HOOK:
You are more than life contained
They say loss but I know you remain
Like a butterfly’s wing
Gather as you wish to do
But let me have my wake in the mourning
VERSE 2 (Swamburger):
Auntie Fran, mother of 8, made of celestial eloquence, sister of seven Celetins.
. passed. Reminded me of Angela Davis, rocking a fro, believing in tomorrow
for the sub sequential task. Raising a fist to risk changing a dish into
another plate of vegetables and fish. Green apples, her favorite,
native to the behavior fit for keeping it moving until the age of 46.
Open casket. I’d rather not look, there’s a certain vow that I took.
Death is yours. I respect your tour of the flesh, with more than a funeral to
adore all of you, without a ceremony to rep the fall of you. I wanna say that I
enjoy you still, today, and will, in ways that society won’t, cause it doesn’t
pay. Hey, it’s ok! I know you better now. Thanks for allowing me to be awake in
the mourning. Wow! It feels good. You know that it does
HOOK