So they buried Ramona

on a tombstone peninsula

jutting into a Bronx boulevard.

The roar of traffic and a mumbling

priest

first

a viewing.

A final farewell

to a stone grey sister

of my grandmother.

And my black-eyed

Puerto Rican cousins

wailing

falling on each other

knocking the brown metal folding

chairs down in the sterile white room

the antiseptic death room

Uncle Joey screaming

Ma, oh Maaa and

driving up to the city.

To the city

through a bituminous

coal-black Pennsylvania night

with Mama

crying and trying to remember

how the old seamstress

used to look

in a yard surrounded by palm trees

and sun

and she said

“Love is so selfish

I should be happy

She’s no longer

in pain.”

And I said Ma,

Love

is the only medication for death.