TWO QUESTIONS AND AN ANSWER
i
“Which cloud is God on?”
the boy asks.
“I don’t know,”
his mother says,
fiddling with the radio.
Outside the window,
a cemetery rolls by.
ii
“What happens when you die?”
the boy asks.
“The worms eat you,”
his mother says.
His father joins in,
singing:
“The worms crawl in,
the worms crawl out…”
Inside the boy’s chest
blooms a fear
that wasn’t there
before.
DOWNTOWN, FUNERAL HOME, 6PM
There’s a wake tonight.
About now the few mourners
will be dusting off the black dresses and navy suits
they save for these occasions,
wondering how quickly they’ll be able to leave
without being rude.
Meanwhile, I’m digging through a shoe box
looking for a photo to prop
on the easel
by the coffin.
Nothing jumps out.
He had no Golden 50th,
no Viking Cruise,
no banquet with veal parm and chardonnay.
So I’ll stand around with my hands in my pockets
and watch the headlights of the passing cars
pierce the lace curtains,
unsure whether to smile or look sad
while the guests mingle in drab clusters
trying not to glance toward the front of the room
as they edge their way to the door
and out into the night
where they’ll sigh with relief, order pizzas,
and drive home to binge Netflix.
CAVERNOUS GLOOM
water echoes—
quiet corridors
of cavernous gloom
EARLY BIRD
I used to stay up late
looking for grit, for neon, for blood
until you brought me to the hour
when the water is at its bluest,
taught me the difference
between the flicker and the woodpecker,
showed me
how the leaves are greenest on a cloudy day,
and now I look for the light
as it leaches into a lifeless sky,
taking your hand
and welcoming the lessons of the day.
AFTER THE PARTY
For me, the real party starts after everyone has gone,
after we’ve washed down the pizza and sheet cake with cheap decaf
and hauled out the black bag of paper plates, hats, and napkins into the February night
and finally settled in the quiet dark of your room
to listen to Johnny Cash
and admire the blinking lights of Boston in the distance
and promise each other to visit a lighthouse
once the spring sun melts the icy crust of Maine,
a promise that keeps me warm as you charge into your third year with blind joy
and wisdom far greater than mine.
Daniel Gene Barlekamp writes poetry, fiction, and audio drama for adults and young readers. He lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts, where he practices immigration law. Website: https://dgbarlekamp.com/.
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