Bob Summers’ Body

I never told this--I saw Bob Summers’ body

one last time when they dropped him down the chute

at the crematorium. He turned over twice

and seemed to hang with one hand to the railing

as if he had to sit up once and scream

before he reached the flames. I was half terrified

and half ashamed to see him collapse like that

just two minutes after we had sung for him

and said our pieces. It was impossible

for me to see him starting another destiny

piled up like that, or see him in that furnace

as one who was being consoled or purified.

If only we had wrapped him in his sheet

so he could be prepared; there is such horror

standing before Persephone with a suit on,

the name of the manufacturer in the lining,

the pants too short, or too long. How hard it was

for poor Bob Summers in this life, how he struggled

to be another person. I hope his voice,

which he lost through a stroke in 1971,

was given back to him, wherever he strayed,

the smell of smoke still on him, the fire lighting up

his wonderful eyes again, his hands explaining,

anyone, god or man, moved by his logic,

spirits in particular, saved by the fire and clasping

their hands around their knees, some still worm-bound,

their noses eaten away, their mouths only dust,

nodding and smiling in the plush darkness.