by Bethany Rohde
Between the time I dialed my folks,
and the time Mom decided to let it go–
to let it ring, I found myself
back in last Friday’s grass:
His coffin — suspended on straps —
above a door-shaped hole. A stranger’s
hands have set him there. Not rusted
yet, hinges gleam.
I sit front-row to wood so humble,
no stain could enhance it. Instead
his box lies tightly wrapped in gray
Feels like his flannel jacket.
Dad never wanted Mom to spend
much on his presents. My eyes
have looked like this
for six days straight.
Bethany Rohde received her BA in English from Western Washington University. She is a contributing writer to the arts/humanities blog: All Nine*. She’s always felt most comfortable articulating her thoughts on paper, but has only recently begun showing those papers to anyone else. Her poetry can be found on VerseWrights, or on her own blog: http://worddoor.wordpress.com/
*The All Nine Muses link is here: http://allninemuses.wordpress.com/