Burial Service

The place they put him seemed extravagant — 
Sprawling flowers, hovering crowd, artificial grass 
To cover up plain dirt. 
The coffin shone, wood lustrous as the new organ 
At the church. He must be proud, I thought. 
The words of the sermon flowed mellifluous 
But the prayer seemed short and the west wind 
Blew the women’s fine-combed hair askew 
And chilled despite late autumn sun. 
After the Amens people melted into their cars 
Except Grandma and her six grown sons. 
Eyes reddened, she refused to go. 
“It’s not right,” she said. “We can’t just leave him.” 
Then the brothers threw back the artificial grass 
And one by one dug deep into the mound of earth 
To fling their loads atop the shining wood. 
Sweat brimmed their foreheads, 
Crept into the creases of their dark suits, 
But they labored as if to save a life 
Until the hole lay filled. 
Still she would have stayed, but they whispered 
In her ear, took her by the arm, and all but carried her, 
Looking backward desperately, to the waiting limousine. 
I visit over spans of years 
And find the place quiet, lonely, small. 
Now that she has joined him, I wonder at memory’s miracle,
The moment, frozen in my mind, the look in her eyes, 
The sons’ quiet fury as they tore into their resenting task 
That day so distant in the files of time.