Claudia Nolan: Heard at a Funeral

words were spoken, and underneath

as though from distant ancestors

the wail of yellow carnations impaled

by long white pins on styrofoam hearts

the rustling of roses an octave below

and a perfumed-mourner’s veil

trilling, like a waterfall in early thaw

a son trembles, standing alone

at the back of the chapel

a daughter rises to join him but

the widow’s grip on her arm is fierce

and then the son is gone

and all of them are gone

except the one who calls out

hurry, daughter.

in a minute, she says

needing something more

condolences and comfort food

at the widow’s home

the chirp of optimism nipping

at delicate quavers of shock

what a good man he was, what a good man

upstairs

a room without windows

a corner draped in black

a wall for leaning

a daughter stirs

the long white pins in her pocket

Copyright 2018 Claudia Nolan

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