Eulogy
Red lensed sunglasses, Lennon-round, and a skull
bolo-tie slide, heavy, silver, threatening to
lose its grip
glide breakneck down the braided black
cord, black button down, and into his shoes,
black. Hair fresh cut, sipping
whiskey from a flask spirited
away into some hidden pocket, slipping
white crisp printed pages one by
one, like a pianist’s sheet music.
After it was over, in a reception
room buzzing condolences and fragile
laughter, I hugged him hard, tensed and
wiry, held tight to my breast, held tight to the shade
of his twin who stood uncharacteristically tall and slim beside
our embrace, the glossy blue-glazed urn
(for the wife). And four more gleaming
gray-toned matching shot glasses,
one dram of ash each for the mother, the daughter, the son, and
the twin, for the first time after fifty-seven years,
one month,
and sixteen days,
a half of two.
Flying home next morning:
A baby dimple-armed
at the gate, chirping nonsense,
purple ponte shorts and tie dye tee, white
wee Velcro Mary Janes, oversized bow at the strap. Pink
pudgy flesh bursting overtop the shoe, overtop
the tight elastic at her belly. Screeching,
pinball bouncing off the legs
of early-morning fliers, all weary at that ungodly hour,
all but her.
She gambols past the towering legs, above her head
each legs-owner smiles and sighs,
eyes half-shrouded by the steam vapor from their tall black coffees.
“If we could bottle it up we’d make a fortune.”
I am seated when she boards, carried past my seat, heavy
in her mother’s arms, limp asleep and breathing slow and deep,
slow and deep,
slow and deep.