a poor funeral, a good meal
my father died in his bed last night,
his glass of water on the table,
half filled, at the bottom
a dark blood moon, crushed,
there was no money for my
father left me none,
I wrapped him in his quilt,
tied it tight with rope, drug
him out of the house,
I had dug a small grave, not
deep but underneath the lone tree
the dirt was soft, I lay him
inside, his fifty cent piece on his
chest along with david copperfield,
I had nothing to say except,
later old man, say hello to all the
wives for me, the infant crib deaths,
say hello to my little brothers and sisters,
I covered him with dirt, went inside, made
myself steak with green onions, drank
the rest of his beer and whiskey, played
my best song on the old piano,
minor chords only.
firefly melody
webs of light
across the fingertips
of young
hopeful children
who still believe
in superman
they float through
the strong trees
with crowns of fire
atop their newborn
heads this
is the life we miss
sk
Elena Cisneros, writer born and raised.