Red Camellia

Did you die by the rope, or was it fate?
Neither a root nor a stem, it was
always up to them to supply a solution
to your problem of ten.
Cinnamon rust on the fetid paper
where your eulogy was spilled,
little could be done about
the flickering lights, the cracked coffin,
or the broken-down hearse.
I asked the priest for a grass cutter, but
all he had was a silver spoon.
A useless weapon, for your heart was
ground into livestock, and
the plant that swaddled you bore
a red camellia; a talking head
who played chess with the dead.
A game that never ends,
naked; afraid of what comes next.