In the Garden
I heard his family buried him in a burlap sack. When one tends to one’s own garden,
rumors can grow like kudzu.
Townsfolk expected his family would choose
final services a walnut and red oak coffin
rendered by a funeral home. crafted by his sons in their farm’s woodshop.
The whole town with his widow, the rest of the family, and
its gossips could parade by the body, close friends gathered to
hear a sermon about eternal life, lift the coffin
follow a purple-flagged hearse in the pickup
to a vault adjoining others behind a church The sons cried, laughed at the surrealty
as they fetched their father’s body
from the hospital
where they could fellowship in the hall where custodians who sat smoking
around hambiscuits and coffee after a blessing, on its loading dock asked,
Father, take him home. You takin’ him home?
Yes, home, they nodded
to our cemetery
on the edge of a pasture
where the boundary
between worlds
is not so firm.
3 thoughts on "In the Garden"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
I love the contrast between the concrete and abstract in this poem – it really represents the experiences of fresh grief
Adore the fact that this is crafted to be read down either side in parallel or across the gutter to be joined by those last three lines. Solid craftwork here.
Thank you. This was so flipping difficult, and I’m not thrilled with it, but I’m relieved I gave it a go.