I've seen this movie; I know how I should act:
politely quiet, distracted by my grief.
But grief's an act I haven't mastered yet.
In fact, I'm almost happy. Everything
is hilarious and everything is wrong:
an awkward hand on the back, the mother's hat,
the sister's low-cut dress. Her body bends
toward the body in its odd white casket
and I wonder what if somehow this
is the only hour of my life that I
will not be sad. Living is just a joke
that no one gets, and I can't get it right.
Some bad-breathed aunt leans over, asks me how
I'm holding up, but there's lipstick on her teeth.
When I open my mouth, the wrong sound falls right out.
©
is the author of The Opposite of People (Four Way Books, 2015) and How the Losers Love What's Lost (Four Way Books, 2015), which won the 2010 Intro Prize for Poetry. A recent Fulbright Fellow to Iceland, he currently lives and teaches in Austin, Texas. For more information, go to patrickryanfrank.com
