- My mother met God, saw his face
she told me so.
My grandmother took the dog with her
before her last wisp in and out
"Come on, Spot ... let's go home."
My father, heavy erratic breaths, gave out
a ballooning voice like pumping of foot pedals
on an old parlor organ.
My sister, weak into her last sleep, woke to request
"Please change the channel, that one's macabre,"
Aunt Emma, meals-on-wheels found her. took to her bed
fully clothed, arms crossed, toes of shoes pointed
straight up ... just the casket was missing.
Uncle S.J., none knew what he said,
found with his shotgun nearby, as were parts of him.
Uncle John Mack, house up on the red clay hill,
battled alone that night. Chairlegs reaching upward,
bed pillows oozing feathers, blankets bunched and huddled,
unlaced boots with tongues extended.
-
- To be continued.
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