My Mother's Funeral & Other Poems

god

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.

Pram

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

recover?

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.

You can read Joe's poetry on twitter @shepherdmoon53 and on instagram at poetblacksmith.