Funerals
by Troy Reeves
"The rich and poor meet together; the Lord is the
The rich and would-be rich refuse to show
The poor do not behave so. A woman bawls,
maker of them all."
--Proverbs 22:2
Their grief. Like children strung out in a row
For wolf-over-the-river, they form a picket
Against the beast rustling in that dark thicket
Into which all men must go. Backs braced,
Eyes hard as marbles, fingers tightly laced,
They wait out the burial of the dead,
Cast a handful of dust into the wind, and head
For home to get undressed, mix a drink,
Lounge on the porch, quietly talk, and think
Of bonds and deeds and wills and boys an girls
And days that lie on the heart like strings of pearls.
Raises flabby arms to heaven, swoons, and falls
With a thud, like a hot-water heater hitting
The bed of a pick-up truck. An old man sitting
On a back pew dabs a balled-up handkerchief
At his eyes as the choir turns the church's grief
Into the music of weary refugees, who,
Poling their raft up the waters of a black bayou,
Catch glimpses through palmetto and pines
Of home: a clearing and a cabin covered with vines.
Service done, they stand in the churchyard and smoke,
Hug, kiss, swap stories, and share a common joke.
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