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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.