At M’s funeral, when the white coffin was just about
to be let down into the hole by four apparently
alcoholic men with stiff sprayed hair,
his mother started to scream all at once, although
it was only a quiet mutter to start with, like chanting
in an unknown language, which then became louder,
and finally reached its climax, at the moment that
the coffin was not within her view, and was halfway
lowered into the hole, she tore herself out of the arms
of her only son left and her husband, who’s lived
with someone else for years, by now, she was
indeed howling, somewhat deliriously, her face
looked dissolved, like a face just after the moment
of orgasm, the vicar turned his head away,
and stared at the walls of the chapel covered
with ivy, when in one of the neighbouring streets
the familiar melody of the icecream van
could be heard and these two voices, the howling
of M’s mother and the melody of the icecream van,
were fused with one another in such an inexplicable way
in the wind, whirling above our heads,
I could tell no one knew what to think of it,
perplexed looks, only a little boy, wearing a light
green children’s suit, a bow tie, who pulled
his father’s hand, nagging him, let’s hurry up,
daddy, let’s buy Raspberry Ripple, can you hear me,
instead of Strawberry, because that’s shit,
you know, Raspberry Ripple, daddy, please.