I’m not going to mock anything—not the prayers
nor the robes, not the kneeling nor the little pink priest
who can’t remember if he’s talking about Jesus or the deceased.
If she loved this, I can too for one day.
I cry through Amazing Grace and On Eagle’s Wings
and my cheek muscles throb
from the effort of holding it to a level
suitable for a new subdivision in North Morehead.
During the middle ages, incense was used
to cover the stench of the unembalmed corpse,
but now it floats through a sea of perfumes
body sprays, deodorants,
and grief–which nothing covers adequately.
I try to decide
whether the sky provides background
for the cross timbers or the cross divides
the porthole of sky.
Either way it’s Easter egg
bleaching to robin’s egg
and the skylight has sent
a gold bar of sun inching
from the pulpit to the casket
that will not arrive before
the slow sigh of the benediction
and the hotdish, buttered bread, pickles,
and bars–three kinds of bars–
and women in freshly ironed dresses
who glide from table to table
offering us more of everything.