I went to the funeral
in my best shirt,
which wasn’t much.
It was sun-dimmed
and pale
and I hoped
(at least for the dead)
that it was enough.

I stopped and watched
the grass bend back
on itself; a lonely tree
shaded us
and if I listened closer
I’m sure I’d hear it mourning.

It was 101 degrees
and I opened my collar
and then the
wailing broke through
and I buttoned it back up,
in fear that ghosts would
creep down my chest
and take me home
with them.

The cold steel handle
felt nice on my hands
but I had never carried
a dead man before
so I was nervous
and tripped on the
lip of the cement.

“Don’t drop my dad!”
broke the windy silence
and the tears came again
and we carried the weight
as if it was our own.

I keep running away from death
and then it forces me to
hold it, carry it,
and even when I bury it
it finds a place,
in the guise of
yellow sticky notes
all over the inside
of my thoughts.

11/19/2015

Posted on 11/19/2015
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