Tagged: funeral

at the funeral,

at the funeral,
your dad shared
the story about that
time when they had
to hold an intervention
clean up or stop
coming around
but for what came
next, we would
not be gathered here
today as family,

** in the absence of The Daily Post from WordPress, here’s your daily prompt: intervention

thirty-four monks were

thirty-four monks were
at your service
yesterday, such professional
chanting, such polished
sutras. memorial banners
flew in from far and wide,
red for your joy, white
for our sorrow, elegant
calligraphy for the man
who lived.

and when the fragrant
wreaths marched in
in lock step, over one
hundred mourners
sniffled in unison,
wiped their burning
eyes in a
within this courtly dance

at my grandfather’s funeral

at my grandfather’s funeral
mom stood
at a ritual distance
with her back against the wall

the women allowed her just
that – no participation, only
observation – a calculated
counterbalancing act
to ward off from her womb
a penetrating sadness

at my grandfather’s funeral
i lay coiled
at a ritual distance
fueled ever so
with love impenetrable


(for a & r)

there is not enough room
for the undocumented
north of this jagged border
not on land, and under no
circumstances may there be
a deliverance in the obits



in dimly lit spaces, the piano
is a train whistling unevenly
across a sloping stage blowing

up, up, and up the crinkling
wings of beethoven
and bartók – the only two
choices left
within these numb
fingers when drowning
in an endless pit of freshly
polished apples. in dimly
lit spaces, the piano is a train
whistling is a wound bleeding
is a cast iron radiator tiptoeing
nearest the asylum of
a north-facing brick wall

with her rusty skirt grazing
at minor third intervals
across all that city snow

the closer to the deceased
the more death becomes
an inconvenience – that is,
which train am i taking?
does my suit still fit? when
is the funeral? where
are my black dress shoes? who
hasn’t been notified?

the more death becomes
an inconvenience, the less we have
to open our eyes widely
towards the emptiness that is still
a faint lingering of our
beloved who can no longer
share in these softest of
laments – who, what, when
and where – but lie
down with us each time
we press our heads against why
and catch our tongues
perpetually blistering on how