Another Poetic Funeral
So you died and left a book of your own poems on the chair
and the goats butted the wall, trying to break into the barn
to get the dog, but the dog stood her ground ears alert.
as the walls kept falling and a lovely red-haired woman
stretched her long, long legs across two states and pulled on black panty hose.
The late sun bore down on dust and dust rose from the pit
as graves grew jealous and empty and a frog played a mean banjo.
The hymns lined the pews yet noisome odors gave us pause to consider our foul ways. Behind the barn, another horse cried for a bucket of oats. And some creature crushed blue eggs in dirt.
These funerals are murder, I muttered and smeared ash on my forehead. A minister read your poems to the fox stealing a chicken while the organist practiced origami in the vestibule and the asses brayed at the stained glass windows. Despite everything, your funeral went off without a hitch, the robins kneeling at the manger as little Jesus cock a doodled until dawn.
Luca Penne earned his MFA at Southwestern Missouri State, where he won the Emerson-Tate Award for his writing. His work has appeared in 2 River View, Forge, and other journals. He is a carpenter and ski-lift operator in northern New England.