- My mother met God,
- saw His face, she told me so.
My grandmother took the dog with her
before her last wisp in and out
"come on, Spot, let's go home."
My father, heavy erratic breaths,
- gave out a ballooning voice
- like pumping of foot pedals
on an old parlor organ.
My sister, weak into her last sleep, woke
- to request "Please change the channel,
- this one's macabre."
Aunt Emma, meals-on-wheels found her
- took to her bed, fully clothed, arms crossed
- toes pointed straight up
- ... just the casket was missing.
Uncle S.J., none knew what he said
found with his shotgun nearby
- as were parts of him.
Uncle John Mack, home on the red clay hill,
battled alone that night.
- Chair legs reaching upward,
bed pillows oozing feathers, blankets bunched and huddled,
unlaced boots with tongues extended.
-
- To be continued.
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