Flowers are general, and all in varying degrees 
of corpseness, pens scattered like the last handful 
of earth; then Nazars, charm bracelets, a little  
metal gorilla, and approx. thirty-eight pence in  
loose change. Those who thought they knew her  
have surely bought her now. Here the historian  
stands two steps back from the grave and observes  
the tyranny of English majors, and chorus of elbows  
that scratched and scratched and scratched again  
to exhume the offensive moniker from the headstone 
like some malicious equivalent of the forty thousand kisses  
wearing away the the stone at Père Lachaise, it’s as if
each man kills the grave he loves. And only irony is left  
behind as HUGHES is the most noticeable word on the  
thing: the end result of all your effort, matched by Freida’s 
ever-bleeding bank account. Those who thought they 
knew her, and the one who barely did. Perhaps irony  
can be the means by which truth insists upon itself. 
 
She opened the windows last, to ensure her children, 
tightly-swaddled, could breathe; round the corner  
four Scousers play the enigmatic opening chord and  
it severs through the chill winter air. Hard day’s  
night, surely. She’s alone interred within this moment,  
blankets tightly wrapped at the door frame, no hope  
for getting out. Gas rises, her last line to the sky.