I keep going to funerals these days.
Everyone is dying. I'm sick of coffins -
being shouldered by big men, or
sat there at the front of the church
with a candle behind and a wreath
on top. I hate their silver handles.
I hate also the way the priest hijacks
the occasion - transmuting the corpse
into a holy person, even if he/she
would rise from the coffin, screaming
if they heard what was being said.
Yet, people keep dying and I end up
in churches, listening to the lies put out
in the name of Christ, a good man,
who'd have been wonderful to know,
who'd have no time for the spun cant
his words have become. And I watch
the altar boys bring forward the holy
water, the incense, and the thurible
for the priest to annoint the coffin, so
it can slip into the hole in the ground
without a worry. Yeah, maybe,
but I'm thinking it can't be that easy.

by Matthew SWEENEY, in "THE POETRY REVIEW", Volume 104:4, Winter 2014

(photo taken from Internet; edited by Armando TABORDA)