Imitation #4: Donovan Acuna

Poem of the Day: Men at My Father’s Funeral

The ones his age who shook my hand

on their way out sent fear along

my arm like heroin. These weren’t

men mute about their feelings,

or what’s a body language for?

And I, the glib one, who’d stood

with my back to my father’s body

and praised the heart that attacked him?

I’d made my stab at elegy,

the flesh made word: the very spit

in my mouth was sour with ruth

and eloquence. What could be worse?

Silence, the anthem of my father’s

new country. And thus this babble,

like a dial tone, from our bodies. 

William Matthews

_____________________________________

Men at a funeral of someone my Aunt knew

Held heads filled with glistening gray hair

I thought might make them like Mr. Rogers.

The ones I made eye contact with smiled

at a boy they had never met or

even would. They had no time for that.

These were men quite mute about it

all. About everything they were

feeling that day. Even the good.

Perhaps this person was their brother.

Or more dear it could be a mother.

Body language did say a bit though.

It was all the elongated waves.

The slouching struts into the kitchen

where memories ran amuck igniting

whatever life was left in the area.

 And I, the distant one who’d stood

with my back to the wall every

minute awaiting departure.

I thought I knew only one person

attending but I was wrong. Ladies

maybe aunts of the dead squeezed my cheeks.

Patting my head and judging my height they

informed me how I once ran in diapers

across their floor. But that too early

for me too remember. Like it’s too

early for me to pry about this

funeral I wish I could escape.

I found an escape tossing apples

to an old man in the front yard

who told me to stay happy and eat fruit.

Donovan Acuna