Funeral

Funeral

Sometimes there is nowhere

to write about a broken

tile except for the last place

you would rather be standing.

If a father is a father is a son to a sun

the things and the rupture I cannot express

will only come back like flames and if

flames are righteous

and cleanse

than this wooden boat we are in

should sink that much

faster,

no?

OK, then.

If I wear all black and he sings a song and they come in cars

and we form a cavalcade and there is something like light

what will you call our goodbyes?

Our night is a mourning

of pasts

and always pasts

There is always one person

remembering my straight hair

exclaiming over younger gone dark

Gone gray

Gone away

gone tomorrow

The smell of that kitchen

will always be hot dog sandwiches

and play-doh in a factory

mashed into the linoleum

not tile

Now tile,

now tinder,

now flames

now gone

In black clothes and mourning

in cars and backseats

we rehearse

the lines of our failed history.

04.26.2010

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