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the author is dead—thank God—
for she was not so good.
she was—they say—a product of her times,
a cold brief hand that went tick-tick-tick
as the hard metal gears bade her.
inexorable.
but that is no Excuse
for humanity (not for us).

the author is dead—thank God—
but she can never be gone.
her voice still sings and trills and sneaks its way
into the heavy spaces
inside off-white paper
thick, leaving no room for notes in the margins.
what would you say, anyway, if you had
a pen? you are not God—are you?
(are You?)

litanies
seeping up from gravedirt, ashes on cinder floors
swept into what once was Art,
apolitical (no such thing)
and Hers alone—
who made the world? (not for us)
do you know—no—your
brain from your liver from your soul?
do you have a soul, if you are not God?
(do You, if You are?)

the obituary will come out tomorrow, i think,
or the day after.
a year from now perhaps.
not until the future, at least
when she finally passes us by and lets us breathe.
black ink will say nice things,
or not 
(it doesn’t matter)
does it matter?

the words will Stand
but not unexamined (not for us)
we are not God—are we?
(are We?)
the author is dead—thank Us, for We straight-up nietzsched her.
long may her legacy rot in the earth,
so We may fertilize a new world
(for Us, We are God)