After the Funeral by John Grey

An old aunt
pulled on my ear,
and Kit just sat there,
with the black neighbor
with rain pouring hard
and the wind was no prize.

Now what will you do? she asked,
fascinated, I think,
by my new parentless domain.

     I’ll hop down on the coffin lid by the river.
     I'll grip the pole;
     I'll throw a string out into the river

I was suddenly an orphan
in search of catfish.

Kit was there, resting on the sideboard -
stiff as fir trees.
as helpful as tears of mud, as the undead.

Mourners were spaced apart
like canapés on a tray.
Night buried mama in her evening dress -
an old model
sinking into the certainty of soil.

So what will I remember
sometime preacher, sometime gravedigger?
The dark-limbed thrash of oaks?
'Hie fish on a cracker nibbling its way to death?
The rain? The wind?

The living and the dead -
there was a fine line between us.
I kept reciting,
     when I am lonely,
     when you are lonely,
     when I am twice as lonely,
     with hook and writhing worm
     tossed into the night sky -
     no bites, no assurances, no takers.

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.

Photo credit: Dirk Dreyer  www.dreyerpictures.com