Funeral
One Easter morning my mother
dressed me all in black
before we went to church.
and parked around the back.
Adults clustered, whispering,
glancing at the dead.
I crept slowly between
their legs, ducking my head.
Kneeling by the casket,
I stared at the gray face,
stiff like wax, touched my palm
to its cold cheeks and hands.
I grabbed the rubbery fingers,
reached under thick black
glasses rims, and pulled
the spongy eyelids back.
My fingers poked its lips,
prodded the nose, the ears,
smelled the chrysanthemum stench
hovering around the bier.