imitation 8 by Lauren Jernberg

Funerals By: Lauren Jernberg

Families sit together. Covered in black.

 They cry over who they lost. Wishing for

More time that they won’t get back. Long lost

relatives you have

Never met come and give their condolences.

Old friends give you hugs and cry for you to.

You hear the gun fire in the background.

It is almost over. Your parents receive

A flag. You fight back the tears that arrived.

You shake hands with so many people it is

All a blur. Never knowing what to say

You keep quiet. Your parents do the talking.

Thanking those who came telling stories of

Their time with the dead. And you just wait.

Wait for the service to be over. Now

Feeling the need to run and grieve. But you

Can’t just go you have to be brave. You are

The oldest now that he is gone. You now

Have the title that is coveted by all.

There is food at the church where stories are

Told. It becomes a celebration of

Life. There is laughter in the air but none

Of it matters to you. He is gone your

Protector. You sit in the corner by

Yourself. None of them understand. You need

Someone. Grandma comes to the rescue. You

Cry for the first time. You could create a

River with your tears. Everything stops as

If they suddenly remembered this

Is a funeral. And they start grieving.

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Men at My Father Funeral By: William Matthews

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.