I went to your funeral today
while you were cooking fajitas.
You chopped red onions
and I let the shower water
trickle down my face
as I gently nodded at everyone
arriving in ill-fitted black suits
and hats as wide as wholemeal wraps
and the words of a future speech formed
in my head like shampoo suds in curly hair.
The red flesh of a pepper looks sour
on the days we have no hot water.
© Carl Burkitt