Burial Clothes
I’m stressing over which blue dress shirt
to give the mortuary
as if my father-in-law might be angry
or at least disappointed if
I pick wrong.
As if he’ll suffer for all eternity,
scratching around the neck of his scratchy collar,
or wanting to, except we chose
the constrictive Delray coffin versus
the roomier one—I forget its name—with the dome-shaped lid.
I know better—know his body is a dead shell,
his spirit turning spirit cartwheels
happy to be free of the worn out thing.
I tell myself that really anything will do,
and I don’t second guess myself until
my husband grabs the hangers and is out the door
and my mother-in-law says,
“Duane was always picky about what he wore;
I hope we got him something he’ll like.”
Laura Anella Johnson
