Corrinne Clegg Hales
Life After Death
There’s the careful dressing in drab, dark clothing,
The somber church, with its dense draperies lining the walls,
The tall, stilted irises, the long prayers, the hushed voices,
The awkward carrying in of the sealed-shut coffin,
And then the droning sermon with its insistence
On the transient and undependable nature
Of the body—the wave of a thin, preacherly hand
Toward the casket dismissing its contents
As an unimportant shell—temporary housing
For the person we knew and loved; and the acrid odor
Of carnations permeates everything.
Later, in another room, it seems impossible
To think of food, but we sit at long tables like children and begin
To fill our empty plates with soft bread and butter,
Slices of sweet ham and cherry sauce, creamed potatoes
And peas, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, asparagus, tomatoes,
Spicy stuffed olives, cucumbers and onions. We chew slowly,
Noticing the tastes, the smells, the textures of every bite—
The coolness of celery, the smooth skin of olives
And marinated mushrooms on our tongues.
We pour more water, loosen our belts and fill our plates again.
And when we’ve eaten the last of the peach cobbler
And the buttery pound cake and the tiny chocolate mints,
We lean back in our chairs and sigh, grateful for our precious
Hungry bodies—the holiest of things.
From
Separate Escapes (Ashland Poetry Press, 2002).