The Day Before My Mother's Funeral

The lawn was cut, but thorny weeds bloomed by The red verbena. We had a sunny sky.

The women had forsaken me: sister, Aunts and cousins, hidden back somewhere To weep, to whisper, to see that coffee perked. "Not-there," stranger-at-home, I fairly lurked On our front porch, the rouge-tile freshly mopped. That was Cousin Abram? The one who chopped His finger off, on a bet? "This one who chopped His finger off is Cousin Abram; this is . . ." Ill-dressed in a tight, stained skirt, she said, "Mrs. Crantenwell," blew smoke, "I used to rent From y'Mother. Five years or more. They sent The corpse?" Her ankles were dirty and her legs Could have used a shave. Poor woman was town-dregs. Men said beef prices would go up in the fall. Their children on the lawn played mock baseball.

I tried to sleep out the wake. Men mumbled past My door. Cups clinked. You poor outcast (But no more than I) lay on the too-soft bed, White-satin finished. Darling vacant-head, Cosmeticked for the town to see, ignore The muted chaos, pink eyelids, be bored.