I go back the Shrieking Shack,
to collect his body,
to give him, at long last,
some semblance of care.
He deserves that much now,
now that I know,
now that I know what I'd known was all wrong.
But when I get there, he's gone.
Taken to where?
To a place where his body
is gently and tenderly
washed, dressed, and prepared,
as befits one
who always
raged
on the side of the angels?
Or was he hastily dug under
in some hidden place,
out of sight, out of mind,
shamefully, guiltily,
as befits
the way
he
thought of himself?
I touch the cold, congealed clots of blood on the floor,
I touch all that remains of him,
and I think that the truth makes a cold blanket,
and I weep.