Just Past Easter
by Beth Vieira
We drive in a line of old Cadillacs and one faded blue Pontiac, like Dead Heads to a show. Up the narrowing valleys to the West Virginian hills, ever steeper as we climb, as ants up mounds of freshly turned soil.
just past Easter
Kleenex boxes everywhere. People I don't know and will never see again. Quiet voices murmuring. Slowly I approach your laid out body in a suit you never would have worn. Mountain man. Your chest heaves upward with an in-breath, or is it me?
brown embalming fluid
A Methodist reads from a thumbed bible to your kin that you barely knew. Some find solace from the shock of your youth spoiled. Those in the caravan squirm on the hard oaken pews like being in a dentist chair motionless for hours.
white walled chapel
4. Family Plot
Markers in Morgantown. All the names. David, you are just another Hughes now. Will anyone come visit you here on this lonely hillside, muddied sod for ground?
the earth unearthed
A single tear drops to my upper lip and I lick the saltiness thinking of your sweat.
published in Simply Haiku