At his grave, I sit,
Waiting for him to rise,
Waiting for the familiar
Clawing of the soil
And the strangled cry.
The scratching begins.
A muffled scream emits from
The horror of being buried alive.
I start to dig when his hand
Emerges and reaches for the sky.
As I pull him out, he looks dazed,
Surprised, his mouth in an O
When I smash his head into his neck.
Yes, they forgot to engrave
His true identity on his tombstone.
Not the repeated lies of
“Beloved husband and father”
But “Wife beater and child abuser”,
Things people won’t believe are true.
But I do, which is why I do what I do.
I send his photo to his terrified wife,
Telling her she is safe forever now.
His resurrection spell did not work
And he is well and truly put down.
She weeps with relief, thanking me
While I kick him back into his grave
And cover it with a heavy marble slab.
Then I wipe my bloodied hands clean
Just as a new text message dings—
Another job in town.
I click ACCEPT, sheath my hammer,
Pick up my scythe, and smile.
Too many monsters alive in this world.
Too many monsters to be pulped.
Who said Death has no conscience?