ManicDDaily

The drawing above is based on the prompt of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales, which was a photograph from a cemetery.  The photograph offered a lot of possibilities; my poem is a pantoum about a funeral, the differing feelings (from numbness to grief) that go through one’s brain at such an event.

What Funerals Are For

I worried that I might not be able to stop
the posturing that shaped my busy mind—
all I’d see, all whom I might know,
imagined encounters over funeral supper wine.

The posturing, the shape of busy mind,
dwarfed the Jesus-coated windows, babes in stone,
(imagined encounters over Last Supper wine)
when fingers touching lid, they led it down.

Dwarfing the Jesus-coated windows, babes in stone,
a block of wood, of over-polished grain,
as fingers touching lid, they led it down,
pulling with it, a winding sheet of weighty pain.

A block of wood, of over-polished grain—
I knew she couldn’t breathe there, that she’d no more breath
pulling within a winding sheet of weighty pain,
weeping without will, without relief.

I knew she couldn’t breathe there, that she’d no more breath,
and all I saw, all whom I might know,
weeping without will, without relief.
I worried that I might not be able to stop.