The Funeral
Feb. 11th, 2006 12:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreAfter talking about Amanda a couple of days this week, I figured today that I would post the poem that I wrote about her funeral. It was one of the more interesting funerals that I've attended in my life, and I wrote the first draft of this poem shortly after it. It was almost a year before I type it up and cleaned it up to perform at a reading; I needed to put some distance between me and the event in order to be objective about that part of the writing process.
The Funeral
They shuffled into the chapel
uncomfortable and stiff;
The few who owned suites
had broken them out,
but most wore jeans
and black t-shirts.
For those who were pal bearers,
the t-shirts had sleeves.
Some of her friends
squeezed into the only black dresses
they had in their closets,
little nightclub numbers
with plunging necklines
and skirts that skimmed
the tops on their thighs.
Still, all were somber,
their pierced faces grim
their tattooed arms
wrapped around each other
in expressions of solidarity
and grief.
Her mother meant well;
she picked 3 songs
that sounded appropriate
but that her daughter would have despised;
if only someone had thought
to do hard-rock covers
of "Precious Memories"
and "The Old Rugged Cross"
to provide a musical backdrop
for days such as this.
The preacher had never met the girl,
though he knew her mother;
and in lieu of a eulogy
he preach a 45-minute full-gospel sermon
to a crowd that sought its spirit
from a bottle,
many who had never seen the inside
of an actual church,
unless you counted the memorial chapel today.
It was hard to believe
that what remained of this girl,
so full of piss and vinegar,
lay in that closed box;
it was hard grasp the poignancy
that only as of her last birthday
had she been old enough
to legally purchase the cigarettes
she'd been smoking for years.
It was impossible to accept the injustice
of the fact that when she woke up
in that burning house
she would be the only one
not to make it out;
after all, her whole life
had been a burning house;
she had survived flames
of poverty and desperation,
the heat of neglect and violence,
so often before
that flames of mere fire
should have had the respect
to move aside and spare her.
At the graveside,
when her mother wasn't looking,
someone dropped a rolled joint
into the open grave,
as a token of friendship
to help her bide her time
in the eternity ahead.
The hot August sun
beat down on the mourners;
one of the guys stripped off his shirt
to reveal a tattoo of the grim reaper
on his the living canvas of his back,
drenched in sweat that ran like tears.
Afterward, they all met up
to drink to her memory
and play the songs on the jukebox
that her mother should have chosen
to play at the service;
loud, boisterous music
full of life
and anger
and screaming guitars.
- Nina Erickson 8/2004
(c)2006
The Funeral
They shuffled into the chapel
uncomfortable and stiff;
The few who owned suites
had broken them out,
but most wore jeans
and black t-shirts.
For those who were pal bearers,
the t-shirts had sleeves.
Some of her friends
squeezed into the only black dresses
they had in their closets,
little nightclub numbers
with plunging necklines
and skirts that skimmed
the tops on their thighs.
Still, all were somber,
their pierced faces grim
their tattooed arms
wrapped around each other
in expressions of solidarity
and grief.
Her mother meant well;
she picked 3 songs
that sounded appropriate
but that her daughter would have despised;
if only someone had thought
to do hard-rock covers
of "Precious Memories"
and "The Old Rugged Cross"
to provide a musical backdrop
for days such as this.
The preacher had never met the girl,
though he knew her mother;
and in lieu of a eulogy
he preach a 45-minute full-gospel sermon
to a crowd that sought its spirit
from a bottle,
many who had never seen the inside
of an actual church,
unless you counted the memorial chapel today.
It was hard to believe
that what remained of this girl,
so full of piss and vinegar,
lay in that closed box;
it was hard grasp the poignancy
that only as of her last birthday
had she been old enough
to legally purchase the cigarettes
she'd been smoking for years.
It was impossible to accept the injustice
of the fact that when she woke up
in that burning house
she would be the only one
not to make it out;
after all, her whole life
had been a burning house;
she had survived flames
of poverty and desperation,
the heat of neglect and violence,
so often before
that flames of mere fire
should have had the respect
to move aside and spare her.
At the graveside,
when her mother wasn't looking,
someone dropped a rolled joint
into the open grave,
as a token of friendship
to help her bide her time
in the eternity ahead.
The hot August sun
beat down on the mourners;
one of the guys stripped off his shirt
to reveal a tattoo of the grim reaper
on his the living canvas of his back,
drenched in sweat that ran like tears.
Afterward, they all met up
to drink to her memory
and play the songs on the jukebox
that her mother should have chosen
to play at the service;
loud, boisterous music
full of life
and anger
and screaming guitars.
- Nina Erickson 8/2004
(c)2006
