After the dark funeral, we see
how we fix the dead—
slip the black bird onto a china saucer
place the plate on a linen tablecloth,
the one grandmother embroidered
and folded into a tissued box.
There is no time to iron,
so let Christ smooth it out,
Christ the chauffeur, Christ the roadkill,
take, eat, the crinkled foot,
black feathers and beak,
a little lemon, a little salt
the cruets of oil and vinegar
echoing the swerve of flip and wing.