Her Father’s Funeral (an unfinished poem)

This poem is unfinished.  It's a recent piece and will likely be revised many times before I am satisfied that it's finished.  But I wanted to share it anyway.

Her Father’s Funeral

She waited until the crowd had gone
The backhoe was filling in the grave
She asked the old man if she could have a minute please
And he agreed
She dropped the witch bottle into the half-filled grave
With a small bunch of lilies tied with black string
She nodded to the old man
And he began filling in the grave again
And she walked away
Walked away free

Elephants

An elephant is the only mammal
that cannot jump.
I guess that's why it stands here
in the middle of the living room
while we serve tea on its back
and speak in hushed tones.

In a Nine-Year-Old’s Bedroom at Night

Bamboo blinds on the window.

Tiny slivers of light.

A door with no lock.

The four-poster bed.

Each post like a sentry.

The faint creak of the door.

The soft rustle of sheets.

Dolls that look on with painted eyes.

The click of the door as it closes.

Stuffed animals that lick away tears

with soft and furry tongues.

How Many Hail Mary’s?

Forgive me, Father, for someone has sinned.

Never mind who; I will do the penance.

It has been seventeen years since my last confession

and then I may have lied out of shame or pride.

Here is the truth and I know it will not set me free:

My father’s sins were in his hands
and he left them imprinted on my skin.
Those hands broke flesh and bone and soul,
and I am left with open fractures that may never heal.

My mother’s sins were those of omission.

Her hands are clean but not her heart.

My sins are in my marrow, bone-deep and viscous.

They swim in the cerebral-spinal fluid
that cushions my mind inside my skull.

If we are all sinners, why is there such shame in sinning?

How many Our Father’s until I am clean?

How many Hail Mary’s until I am whole?

Lord knows, I’ve already prayed.