The Funeral

It’s rather mordant

Don’t you think?

This funeral,

Completely devoid of pink

She stands in the far corner

All alone

She mumbles to herself

It comes out in a groan

Who is she?

Well, that’s the question

Nobody knows

And so goes the precession

If you dared to listen

Perhaps you’d find her words

To be of wisdom

For a word after a word

Is power

And for all she longed for him

Shit

She got him

So perhaps that’s why

Her eyes

Remain

Dry

So you follow her

Intrigued to say the least

For who can remember pain

When the pain is deceased

Startled

She grips your hand

Beware the future, past

And

Present

Pain marks you

Too deep to see

Even though you thought you knew

And yet it remains

Out of sight

Out of mind

Leaving quite the plight

She turns on heel

Down the corridor

The one that resembles

A coroner

Wait

You’ll call

Stumbling down

The hall

Who are you

You’ll ask

She’ll respond

As though a masque

Oh

I’m Margaret Atwood

Novelist, Activist, Essayist

Some would even say good

Her eyes turn to steel

Beware the patriarchy

For they spur

The matriarchy

Oppression through

Scheming

Denying us the lives

We should be leading

Don’t you think?

You’ll nod your head

Absent-mindedly

Trying to process what she said

History repeats itself

Unfortunately my dear

And because of this

Unfortunately we must live in fear

Fear of the unknown

Of future in kind

Fear of the past

And all of that outlined

But don’t be blind

Equality is the goal

Otherwise the world

Will never be whole

And so she leaves you

Standing stock still

Unsure if she has made

A mountain out of a molehill