What Remains

[heslopian]

In some regions of China,
a dead man’s reputation
is considered proportional
to the number of guests
who attend his funeral;
strippers are often hired
to pull crowds
In Madagascar, the dead
are often pulled from graves
and carried about, body danced
above attendees, but only once
every seven years
Stoney ground in Tibet
makes burial often impossible,
so the dead are often chopped,
mixed with flour and left
to be eaten by scavenging birds
In Wisconsin, my own father
is stored in cold porcelain;
at the funeral, I suppressed an urge
to pilfer some ashes for fear
of not knowing which body part
was being placed into my hand, or
being smudged beneath my fingerprints
Yesterday, I took his herring bone sport
coat down to a charity store; hopefully,
I gave it away to someone else’s father;
five years after his death, we continue
to misunderstand each other

I'd recommend dividing this into verses. You have demarcation anyway, with certain sentences beginning on capitals, so to not separate into verses just looks strange.
The last two lines are a bit superfluous, in my opinion, but otherwise I loved this poem. It's such a refreshingly matter-of-fact yet subtly spiritual and emotional approach to the subjects of death and grief. There's something really clever about the way you discuss cultural death rites, which to a western audience feel exotic, then close with a funeral somewhere as ordinary and industrialised as Wisconsin, America. Thank you for the read