Jeff Hardin
The Funeral Director
He, too, grew up poor.
He, too, knows the story here
of failed crops, abandoned cars,
weekly paper like a wonderful inventor of plenty
for these living who are mostly
(if anything) visitors, given a few moments
to feel completely their own.
It is ridiculous how rich grief is,
how muffled our refusals, our acceptances are.
Upon the funeral director's shoulders
we can't get, can't tower over.
Too wily, too politely biding is he.
He composed our loved one's hair.
Of course he keeps his hands together
poised at his waist, below sight,
palm with palm agreeing.
He would agree, it seems,
with anything. For instance:
that what's believable perishes finally,
that saplings are flimsily lyric,
that a downpour can buoy,
that the genius of cynicism
is abeyance to the unseen.
Seen from the balcony,
the funeral director's hair
curves like a shoreline
with two small inlets.
Between them juts
what's soon to sink below.
Single-handedly, with both his hands,
he's arranged it so that
nothing more can be profound.
Why aren't more injunctions brought against him?
Does he, too, know the shape
of every vase, the burst and sprawl
of flowers? Has he projected the use of tissues?
Let us ask him where he stands
on admiration, admonition,
omission, permission,
this exponential division.
Be hidden, all. Veer and dwell.
Be moment, moment. Be aim,
only aim, and never (not even once) strike.
Poet Lore, Volume 92 Number 4, Winter 1997.