I confess. I do believe in god. Not an all knowing all powerful bearded old man on a throne in the sky. No. No. My god is androgynous, sitting near me In the coffee shop. Inconspicuous. Strong, but flawed. With my god, I press my face to the sky. And I feel the drip, drip, drip of the sun.
Each day I drive by her. She’s pushing an empty stroller.
Leaves are falling carelessly. Who walks a vacant carriage?
Little deaths of color often frighten me.
This is not a child who lost a Barbie Doll.
Is spring guaranteed? Should I stop my car?
If I do, am I one step closer to a grief that won’t
My Mother’s Funeral
I’m sure that I wrote an elegy that W. H. Auden
would appreciate. But I don’t remember a word.
I stood - exposed. The altar started quaking
and my face was a flood. I saw a carnival of mirrors
in every pew. My heart convulsed.
I lurched forward mid-sentence with the mahogany casket as a crutch.
The wheels were moving sideways. Would she die again
if I faceplanted into the lush crimson carpet?
The organ played and the day slid
into the grave.
Joe Barca is a writer from New England. He is married with two children and a Wheaten Terrier named Brady. He has self published three short poetry collections, and his work has been included in a number of cool publications. He is a fast talker and a slow runner.