People forget the witty things you said
Your books will be remaindered by and bye
Your hair won’t go on growing when you’re dead.

Your heavy coffin will be lined with lead
The mourners sip cold tea. Your girl will cry,
People forget the witty things you said.

But soon she’ll put off black and put on red
She’ll talk of you sometimes, and maybe sigh.
Your hair won’t go on growing when you’re dead.

She’ll take another lover to her bed
Who’ll see her weep sometimes and not know why
People forget the witty things you said

You’ll be remembered by the portrait head
she draws. She always had an artist’s eye.
Your hair won’t go on growing when you’re dead

Your art’s remembered since it’s hers it fed
She’ll think of you when it’s her turn to die
People forget the witty things you said
Your hair won’t go on growing when you’re dead.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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10 Responses to

  1. So apropos for my life right now.

  2. the_maenad says:

    Brrrrrrr. Entirely too close to the bone for comfort, but sure and isn’t that the job of the true poet… Another great one, Roz.

  3. veronikos says:

    I think of the million idiots zinging each other on Twitter.

  4. ffutures says:

    Well, being remembered for your art is better than nothing.

  5. nellorat says:

    I don’t want to be glib about a moving poem, but you do know that one’s hair and nails do not, in fact, grow after death, right?

  6. caprine says:

    This is lovely. I don’t see villanelles much any more, which is a shame as they’re a fine form that can be very powerful.

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