The maidens at the wake are born in soccer shorts and flip-flop shoes.
They have grown up seeing their mothers in constant war
With dresses, with shoes, with crafty haircuts.
They parade between the funeral parlor and the street
And there's no solemn point for them on earth
Immune to their incisive statement about taste.
Only the flowers, the magnolia scent
- Of bloodless death in formaldehyde, running fast to the brain -
Confront this dowdy army in athletic suits, prevailing.
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