white silver

spoon people

with their indelible grins

and white bloated cheeks

cloaked in tablecloth at sunday dinner

like corpses eight days buried

eyes peeled open and skin pearly

if when we die we're smiling

and if the children tunnel around us

with such small white plastic shovels

all freckled in dirt

like little moles blind in soil and sun

if when we die we're blinking

hiding from the flash before our eyes

and if the insects find our bodies too soft

too warm and killed too quickly

we'll rest in space made for lovers

beneath a slab of granite and our family's feet

black heels poking into our sides

if when we die we're together

in cemeteries like silverware drawers

let us be two spoon people

cloaked in sunday best

grins indelible

hands cupped to catch the rain