Sacrament
If only we could place our dead in the basement. Slide
them into drawers beneath the stairs. Arms folded
like a favorite crewneck sweater. The red one worn
at the elbows. Its moth-bitten hem. We could keep
their bodies pressed & creased sharp. Bring them out
for holidays like an Easter tablecloth. The one stained
with Mom’s gravy. Its brownness floating on top of woven
pastels & prayers. We’ll sit stoic during uneasy words.
Cancer. Comfort. Hospice. Pass the platter of old bones.
Napkins to cover our open throats. All we claim to be true
is truest at the table. & at our table, what we’re forgiven
is sanctified by candle & flame. We’ll teach our daughters
to bring up Mom on rainy evenings to sit on the porch.
Watch broken pastures on fire. How smoke & ash blur
our horizon. How green returns greener in spring. I can hold
her hand. Remind her war rationing has ended. That sugar
once hoarded behind the family radio now sits on the counter.
& apple crisp cools by the window. When it’s time, we’ll wash
her body again. Dress her in linen all smoothed & ironed.
Just as she liked it. Such ceremony as we put her away.
them into drawers beneath the stairs. Arms folded
like a favorite crewneck sweater. The red one worn
at the elbows. Its moth-bitten hem. We could keep
their bodies pressed & creased sharp. Bring them out
for holidays like an Easter tablecloth. The one stained
with Mom’s gravy. Its brownness floating on top of woven
pastels & prayers. We’ll sit stoic during uneasy words.
Cancer. Comfort. Hospice. Pass the platter of old bones.
Napkins to cover our open throats. All we claim to be true
is truest at the table. & at our table, what we’re forgiven
is sanctified by candle & flame. We’ll teach our daughters
to bring up Mom on rainy evenings to sit on the porch.
Watch broken pastures on fire. How smoke & ash blur
our horizon. How green returns greener in spring. I can hold
her hand. Remind her war rationing has ended. That sugar
once hoarded behind the family radio now sits on the counter.
& apple crisp cools by the window. When it’s time, we’ll wash
her body again. Dress her in linen all smoothed & ironed.
Just as she liked it. Such ceremony as we put her away.
| DAWN DUPLER’s poetry has been featured on the buses and trains of St. Louis’s MetroLink, in Natural Bridge, Whiskey Island, Moon City Review, and others. She is the 2023 Winner of MacGuffin’s Poet Hunt, 2023 Semifinalist for the Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize, and an Associate Editor of december literary journal. |