As I Lay Dying

for James Franco

This was how it was
to die back then, one
son sawing rough pine
boards beside the barn
to build a box to lay you in,
while you lay sweating
in the twisted sheets,
too weak and sick
to turn or toss.  Mule
flies by day; at night,
mosquitoes. They’ll say,
just like they always do,
“She’s gone to a better home.” 
Who knows or cares?
Too late now; what
happens happens.