It’s not entirely clear who haunts Philip Clark’s coming-of-age poem more—the dead or the living.
—
Lacrimosa
Where I grew up, wakes were
a sparring ground —
Furor was the only defense to grief;
someone had to fight and rant
against the terror of all
those flowers.
That is how I remember the dead,
lone among loud voices and the odor
of calla lilies and plastic chairs —
caves where a child could seek solace
from black-veiled arguing aunts.
I played solitaire with the prayer cards,
until I was slapped soundly by a velvet glove.
I waited for the priest to arrive.
He was beautiful; I remember his
cassock whispering towards me.
Everyone was quiet then; I remember that too.
As everyone stood, I cried;
not for the lonely dead, but for the living
who dread the sumptuous air,
the unadorned smile, and the fervent prayer.
***
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