The White Whale

The limo that came to pick us up for the funeral was a brilliant white.
My grandmother hit her head on the ceiling designed to look like stars
winking out of night.
Leopard print, a mini bar, and laser lights.

Hebrew, I'll say it here, enables you to forget your grief
it tries to be so meaningful
it means nothing to anyone.

The casket was heavy, there were too many pall-bearers.
Someone kept kicking my shoes. Your time. Your time. Your time.
Not yet. Slow the fuck down. Don't drop Grandpa.

Do drop dirt and roses. There was a shovel, a custom. Upside down
you dig the dirt and toss it down.
I grabbed a handful, to feel it under my nails.
It was one hundred ten degrees all week, and winds from Hell.

I went to the house of my birth, picked an orange from my father's tree.
The fifteen year old girl said she'd lived in my house
her whhhhhhhole life.

My grandmother hasn't been alone since 1947.
I was the last to leave her. I left, by accident, the orange too.