recitation

my name is alma.

we don't mince words here.

we buried her on a wednesday,
the sky grey and the clouds too puffy.

but wait. no - they were just right
the clouds were. and the grass,
perfectly green and brown.

my mother cried
and my father slapped my uncle.
i wore an uncomfortable
red and blue polka dot dress
made of cotten and polyester.
it was uncomfortable because it caught on my knees.

with my left hand i helped guide
my mother to a seat
and with my right i tossed a yellow carnation
onto a stranger's grave.
'marsha lea' read the stone
and i did not recognize the name.
i do not, even now, recognize the name.

the minister spoke slowly
of my grandmother, of my mother's mother
and, presumably, of life:

we breathe deep, he said to the small crowd,
our chests at full capacity,
and hold the weight of entire legions
of death and of stench.

and with so much intentional love
we gather in our hands the dirt
of our parents
and let them slip through our fingers.

when he finished
we returned home
and i slept in my dress, uncomfortable, on the sofa,
my mother cried alone in the guest bed,
my father drank alone in the garage,
and my grandmother floated
through the rooms with us, dead.

my name is alma
and we don't mince words here.

my grandmother was buried on a wednesday.
that's today: the wednesday that we buried her.