Measurements
for a Funeral Coat
The car drove
about the speed it needed to go.
The
last of the gasoline fizzled out of the engine,
and
the car was dead along the side of the road.
Prescription of pills did what it needed.
Cap
was popped off and were deposited on tongue
and
troublingly swallowed.
Storm clouds gather on side of road next to corpse of
metal rust bucket.
Woman
straddles the white line on the shoulder of concrete pathway,
her
heels clicking in miniscule pot holes.
Man chugs bottled water,
crushes
plastic bottle in fist,
and
litters alongside metal decay.
“There’s nothing for miles.”
“Nothing
for miles.”
“Yes,
nothing for miles.”
“What do we do now.”
“Hell
if I know.”
“Well,
what do we do.”
Crack of heaven blasts a reverb across the fields.
Rows
of corn sway in gray atmosphere before the downpour commences
upon
the deposited car.
Woman screams and moves to return.
Man
follows suit but doesn’t see locking mechanism close,
is
not aware of clicking sound that signals mechanism is engaged.
A tug on handle.
A
slam of palm on glass.
A
scream into the storm.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Open
the door.”
Hands fumble and search for keys in pockets,
where
keys do not exist.
Female
hand dangles set of keys to be seen by male eyes.
Yellow teeth broad and smiling from inner warmth.
Perfect
white teeth grimacing against the rainfall.
Spoken
curse words push through teeth.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Open the door.”
**************
**************
Calm wind greets children in the dense of winter
morning.
They
scream in delight as snowballs break against faces.
Guarded
by ski masks.
Inside housewife insists on keeping children outside
for as long
as
possible. Avoiding the noise but missing
it
while
husband scratches an itch on the sofa.
Pill bottle cap is pressed, and then twisted off.
Disengaging
child guard and then tipped over to deposit
pills
delicately into open palm.
A toss back, a rest on tongue, and then a swallow.
Glass
of water knocked back.
Small,
low volume, but enough.
Crinkle of beer can, and a soft thud, almost muted on
shag white carpet,
as
sound of ball game screeches out of television speakers,
a
grunt of masculinity, a scoff, a judgement.
Wife scrubs plates with dish rag,
as
children play outside.
Snowball
flies and clashes against window, loud, packed with ice.
“Who threw that.”
“It
was nothing.”
“Who
threw it.”
Colossal footsteps on carpet, then tile, then at
window over kitchen sink.
Memories
of ice ball slide down window like brain matter.
Brain
matter exploded onto wall.
“I’m gonna teach them a lesson.”
“No,
you’re not.”
“I’ll teach you a lesson.”
***********
***********
Casket is lowered with indifferent grace into the
dirt, returned to the earth.
A
hoarse excitement of crows blasts overhead, jealous of the wasted carrion meal.
A
little longer still, and the casket disappears below the mud.
Aged woman does not cry, does not shed a tear.
Grown
children with growing children stand by with stone faced conviction,
inside
casket corpse of man from car, from house.
Someone sniffles loudly, sobs,
a
woman nobody talks to, a woman nobody knows,
except
lady dangling keys, except lady scrubbing plates.
Aged woman, with skin tight and hugged to fingers,
with
infinite folds shakes as pill bottle jumbles around
like
magic jumping beans and she struggles with cap.
Adult child reaches out,
takes
pill bottle and twists cap off, protection for children and senior citizens,
and
shakes pills out into her sandpaper palm.
At home now,
house
is quiet,
devil
is gone.
“So quiet.”
“Yes.”
“It
was never this quiet.”
The elderly lady sits in chair and ponders,
looks
at room, holds hands to belly, formally womb
and
thinks of waddling like penguin into car, in storm, with keys.
She smiles to herself,
smiles
that she left him out,
but
frowns that she didn’t keep him out.
Adult child enters living spaces that housed the
recently dead,
and
kneels for mother,
he
holds her hand, and kisses the top of it.
“He’s gone now.”
“No.”
“But
he is.”
With other hand, slow, and gliding in spaces,
she
places it freezing on adult child’s cheek,
and
rubs her fingers there.
“He’s here.”
“Mom.”
“He’s
there.”
Her eyes glide across the room, and she thinks of it,
thinks
of how it’d been empty before,
she remembers the woman.
**************
**************
Pill bottle sits on mantel piece,
elderly
child ponders house.
Old
but younger siblings gather for brunch.
Indistinct chatter of half listening.
It
pollutes the silence of the spaces.
Senior
child looks at former photo of dead woman.
Child imagines floating in sack,
laughing
amongst the rain droplets
as
young and spirited and troubled woman made a stand.
No gasoline, an angry man,
no
worries of hands,
his
temper curbed with expectation.
“He never touched me.”
“But
we saw.”
“He
never touched me when I carried you all.”
Seven siblings sit staring at scattered memories
that
littler dining room walls,
nine
months of respite, each.
Eldest sibling shuffles with aid of crooked cane,
and
sits down at head of table,
not
asking for it, but given it.
“He never touched me”
“He
did me.”
“Me
too, but only a bit.”
Eldest sits, finally comfortable and feels at ribs,
feels
at legs, and chest,
feels
at face.
Sixty-three months out of a lifetime
for
mother to be at peace
but
delivered seven souls into hell.
“Who is going to say grace.”
“I am
not”
“I’ll
say grace.”
Heads bow.
Senior
breaths emanate out.
Prayers
are spoken, perhaps heard.
“Amen.”
No comments:
Post a Comment