Behind the funeral home’s pulpit,
a jaundiced picture of Grayson Lake
plastered from floor to ceiling,
edges peeling away at the seams.

The old preacher,
sweat gleaming on his bald head,
shuffles to the microphone.

I’d like y’all to pray for me,
that the spirit will lead me in the way I should speak to this family.

Now I know what’s coming next.
My central-Kentucky born, Catholic-raised wife has no clue.
She has never heard the cadence ,
the rhythm hasn’t worn grooves in her memory.
So her eyes widen at the guttural lines.

And I can tell you, honey, hah,
When that angel of death comes a callin’, hah,
and your days on this old earth, hah,
that have been a’numbered since the day you was born, hah–

staccato clauses,
then the voice rising in a melody
conducted by the preacher’s arms,
raised in his short-sleeved dress shirt.

But Lord of heaven, hah
You sa-aved this wretch, hah
You’re the only one that can do it Lord, hah,

The obituary had called it a celebration of her life.
But the minister dwelled on the afterlife
And even there
he couldn’t make room for her.

And I’m gonna beg to y’all tonight, hah,
I’m gonna beg to y’all to find yourself an altar, hah,
Y’all need to get yourself to a church, hah,

Say her name.

And the human soul is going to live somewhere, hah,
For all eternity, hah,
And it can be in the para-dise with the Lord, hah,
That mansion in the sky

Say her name.

Or it can be in the eternal torment, hah,
The land of all the poor, lost souls–

Preacher,
for the love of God,
Say her name.

Is all it takes to go from certain 
to un.
One single cent can take a train from railed
to de.

Was that just a story I was told
a lesson about respecting the power of the penny
the weaknesses of the train?

This Fourth, my son, beloved, leave the bottle
capped, let the can, unpopped, stay sealed.
They’ll always be around to tempt you: just for
a holiday, force your mind open, your eyes to see.
Let the guarded gestures soften, love emerge.

My dog’s asleep, wagging her tail, rolling her eyes,
remembering some happy chase in dreams.
Your family will remember going through
the motions of backyard barbeque, potato salad,
bright cut vegetables, a bought cherry pie.

You can gather toward yourself the remnants
of splintered years. They want your steady hand
lighting the punk, gently telling them to stand back.
Maybe they’ll embrace the prodigal father, mate,
and friend. Maybe it will still be stiff, chin away.

It’s true, I’ll always love you, but night after night
I dream I’m losing you. My mate wakes me because
I holler. I watch you climb away and fall: no matter
how I strain, you slip away. I feel the greatest loss
I’ve known, and it is multiplied by siblings, cousins,

Grampa, uncles, aunts, your chosen family, friends.
What we don’t ask is that you turn around, fight
to come back because you love us, too. I’m asking,
now: forgive us all our absences, distractions, and
mistakes. We wanted you to find yourself, unfettered:

Now we want you back, yourself. Maybe it will feel
so good, you’ll stay, already forgiven, son. If we get
it wrong, we’ll laugh. Maybe we all will cry. It could
get the lava moving, let off steam. There are years
ahead for you to be the self you are, my cherished one.

How much like dying
this change seems –
the agony of cells’
reshaping, one tissue
expanded, another withered –
the loss! the loss! we weep
for that which is no more and writhe
with joy in the unfamiliar
thing we are becoming.

I know hard eyes like those, stoney and burning.
When they go out, they don’t leave
a void, like other fires. They leave something akin
to black holes, dark and gaping maws
of fathomless cruelty,
slowly tearing apart
anything stupid enough
to cross into their event horizon.

my forward charge toward muscled splendor//  is torpedoed //

by my own thickness & girth, // by chub rub & my thunder thighs.

// juxtaposed with calves // thick enough // to be the trunks of sapling trees

                                               —between hip & knee, this is another battle site,

these are alternate weapons, // these two swaths of skin are a killing field. //

my thighs are massive slabs of meat, // a cut no man should find delicious, //

though we all know // the best flavor’s in the fat // we bring home 93/7 lean //

in plastic wrapped Styrofoam trays. // grill away the blood, // leave no trace of it

on your plate. // whether they’re wide as a wall or narrow as a pike, //

                                                  keep them closed—or not—at your own peril.

open too often & no one will make an honest woman of you;

don’t open enough & you’ll catch yourself a dishonest man

//stepping away from the barracks // to lay down in a dirty patch of landmines.

                                                 the real conflict is always in the meat, isn’t it?

toothpick thighs got no grip // to saddle up & hang on to a stallion //

& thunder thighs // may not look good in dress whites, // but in combat

they can sure take a hit. // missile-heavy & just as dangerous // when you flip open

the control box & launch them // towards a target.

                                                remember, when you go to war in the streets,

every soldier tells you // they want a thigh gap, // that factory air

is as good as armor // or a target, your choice.

you thought the conflict was in the meat, // but really,

it’s in the best part of your body // being one

                                                 that doesn’t even exist.

dinner on the lawn
party of one;
wild rabbit

They came from the city,
to visit us in the country,
and 
I remember,
it was always
Life Savers
they brought;
Peppermint
and the ones with all the colors.

They were beautiful people,
and
we knew they loved us. 
.

He 
Pins a clover to his chest pocket
And waits for her
She
Walks toward him
In her gown of Queen Anne’s lace

He
Pins a clover to his chest pocket
And waits for her 
She 
Walks toward her love, we