Do you think it beastly that we’re
possibly the only creatures who aspire,
at death, to translation in another sphere?
Meanwhile, who knows where the dead beetle
has gone, its bright shellacked carapace lying
still on a rock edge, its red husk stippled
with marks but light as air? But I admit there is
a kind of comfort from taking part in the ritual
called pagpakada: gathering around the deceased
to watch as someone acting as his representative
stands up, takes leave, bids the living goodbye.