Black Crepe
Walk to the casket on shaky black heels. Feel polished
maple under a fist wadded with wet tissues and snot.
Touch the sleeve of a dress uniform with the hand that
wears a thin wedding band.
Watch recessed lights glint above white satin, off a badge –
numbered two. Plan to get that shield tattooed on your ass,
just to feel pain, instead of numbness.
Lean over rosary beads twined between fingers. Remember
how he did not believe in a god when he toured Vietnam,
or when he watched his mother suffer – every bead she
prayed another name for cancer.
Kiss cold lips under a trimmed mustache. Think back to how
it looked when you first met – waxed and curled up at the
ends like question marks.
Sit in a chair while your kids chase each other through crowds
of mourners – SCREAMING. Hug people you don’t know or
give a damn about.
Study the honor guard – hands at their sides, white gloves
used only for parades and funerals, hats pulled low over eyes
that stare straight ahead.
Dare them to say anything about how your kids are acting,
about those having their own receiving line at the other end
of the room, about the relative who is taking home the flowers
she brought.
Dare them to write secrets, seal them in envelopes, address
them to their brother in blue. Promise not to peek, not to look
for confessions as you write your own haikus for casket
compartments.
Compose tear-stained letters, add nips of blackberry brandy,
a red Teletubby placed on a satin pillow by your daughter
before the casket is closed.
Eat sawdust at the reception, chew cardboard. Drink Fanta
grape soda. Forget the names of politicians who shake your
hand, tell you to call them.
Listen to the buzz of a thousand bees, the sting of gossip,
where people will go after they eat, shopping or out on a
first date.
Tune out an old aunt who insists you look at the newspaper
ad in her hands, they are having a sale on shoes.
You should buy a pair.
Stress over how to put food on the table for your children,
how to pay the mortgage on what little money you make.
Wad wet tissues and snot in a fist to stop yourself from
punching the woman who says not to worry, you will find
someone else. Wonder if anyone will arrest you if you
knock her lights out.
Arrive back to a house wrapped in black crepe like the bow
on his cruiser. Listen to your son yell that he loved his dad
more than anyone else, slam his bedroom door – the one
with the hole he kicked in a week ago.
Climb into bed with your young daughter. Hug her –
hug the dream when you danced, where he sang off key
with Elvis Presley that he would always love you,
that he would never leave you.
Try to recall what the hell you wrote in a letter to him,
sealed in a casket compartment – the one with no return
address.