How long will the body burn? If we leave it

to smolder, unwatched but by death

attire, blood-hungry scavengers, thoughts,

and all the rest piled with it on the fire,

who keeps watch? And how long? Hours?

Days? Will mourners

outlast the smell,

or will they leave it,

the coals burning, the sweet scent

unattended? The funeral pyre stands only

as tall as we stand with it.

If we stop waking to faces of smoke

at our windows, if the embers

and sparks don’t blow, tumble, or creep

across the grass and crown the trees,

then we’ll return to feast on the ashes.

Until then, we'll still recognize

ourselves in the corpse.

But who will climb into the fire

to hold Patroclus’ body until he’s gone,

rocking like waves beneath an arrow-struck boat

among the horses and war prizes?