Funeral Home
I was eleven when the truth
about living and dying hit me
in a lobby. I remember the smell, somewhat;
I would remember it again later,
when I cut open a frog in high school.
The place was a hospital
with stained-glass windows,
like a church with an alter and solemn faces,
pews, and people, and the preacher,
but no choir to sing about salvation, thankfully.
The speaker played canned mouring tunes.
I sat apart from my family, in the lobby, but
there was a crack in the door
and being a child I couldn't help it
--the blue tinge and clean-shaven face of my uncle
stared back; very wrong in its organization.
That man had died in the way that he lived, manically--
and I saw everything
when I couldn't help myself.
My more distant relatives had
their children put drawings inside the box. Of course,
I love you's with rainbow, smiles, and suns
and I couldn't make myself go in that room,
and never would.
Even though I knew him better, I had held him
closer, I couldn't leave it at a small kiss
on his cold forehead.
Not like that... but how?
I didn't take that chance, and now
I see faces in my sleep and I am ashamed
of the way my chest caves each time
I drive by a funeral home.
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