I read a poem at my father’s funeral.
White Flowers, by Mary Oliver.
I stand at the podium, dressed
in a bright outfit, and think
about his inappropriate children.
There’s me, jet-lagged, coming
from as far away as I can fly
and still be in America, reading
a poem about sticky blossoms,
sugary vines and death.
My older brother shows up
in a Mercedes with an oil leak,
looking like an undertaker
in a black suit and tie, his briefcase
bulging with a rambling script.
Baby brother pours himself
out of a rented Hummer
that’s loud and belching.
Just like him, still smelling
like the round-buying night before.
Now older brother channels a preacher,
droning on and on to a confused
and mourning congregation.
Baby brother blubbers loudly,
snotty nosed, feet in the aisle.
I place an orchid lei
on the military headstone–
after the 21 gun salute,
after the gravediggers
hand both of my brothers a shovel.
They look at the men quizzically.
Suddenly, wild,
I push them all away. I kneel down,
grab fistfuls of dirt,
wishing I’d worn black.
