Meet Your Maker
At our great grandmother, Cora’s, funeral,
We’re hungry, and you whisper we should
Lead the funeral procession into the drive
Through at Kentucky Fried Chicken.
Then we have to leave, straining against
Our giggles, to stand in the vestibule,
Abandoning Cora, who lies with her arms
Crossed, her hands painted to hide her
Life, covering her liver spots. When I
Say, hands, you pull out a twenty dollar
Bill and give it to me, as was her habit
With each of us. Grinning or winking
She would slip the money into our hands
Or pockets, make us promise to keep it.
Our secret. The bills tingled from her constant
Snuff. You say, I always snuck
The money back into her purse, and when
You look at me, you know I kept the money.
What? No matter how little or how much. Give me
Back my twenty. No.
From Cora’s room, filled with her children,
Their children, and all the rest, floats the preacher’s
Voice, Cora’s favorite, a man proud of fire
And brimstone, She’s gone to meet her maker.
Like this? I said, crossing my arms over my tie,
That doesn’t sound like fun. How will they
Hug? And we’re off with other possible poses,
Arms wide open, to hug our Maker,
Or Legs, you said. Or priapic, ready to Meet
Your Maker. You look out the window
At the parking lot, its cars at once blurred
And glinted by the June Mississippi light,
And ask if I remember stacking bodies
In my grandmother’s back yard. I do.
Our Army Men’s casualties, those bodies, pebbles.
The men themselves, green plastic, their roles
As defined as the coffin pose. The Machine Gunner.
The Radio Man. The Infantry Soldier.
We burned them, you say, smiling.
Melted. Where did we get the matches?
Some, we twisted into new shapes, and buried
With the pebble bodies. The mushed men, next to
Smooth stones, our idea from the Sunday School
Shroud. Of how death should be.
The acrid burning of those soldiers, clear
As any smell. As Cora’s perfume, revealed
In the last years of her life as she forgot her
Addictions and her loves. Scent under Snuff.
Meet Your Maker Your Way, you say,
Custom Coffins our new business.
Ready For Love, The most popular model.
Legs open. You laugh, We’re going to Hell.
And now. Now you have taken yourself
For that meeting. You in your coffin’s coffin,
Classic. And I have to leave again,
Stand outside, this time, June still, still.
When I turn to where you should be, were,
I can still hear your voice and see you
Walking with arms folded, then unfolding
Bat, I said. No, you said, a baby bird,
Opening your arms. Cheeping.