You know how it is, late in the day
Milton’s angels in your throat—
Here comes the delivery van
Sturdy men lugging the thing.
My great-grandfather—a wheelwright
Built caskets from stray boards
But hers doubled as a coffee table
With this extra trick:
Guests went home, she played in her grave
Clutching one pink peony.
I remember my first undertaker’s smile,
Of exceptional teeth, then his lips
Remembering to cover the gravestones
But not before his awkward flex;
“You can’t afford the Conquistador,
The casket that conquers death.”
Sarah, drink your marl-ish ichor.
Milton, Sola fides, let’s play cards.