verse

The Funeral Director

A poem by Jennifer Juneau

Posted: June 19, 2009


Hated us, as we bickered in front of the casket.

He said often he’d seen familial debris

unknowingly flex its muscles to coax any racket,

so the dead can rise and pry

apart our clenched teeth.

Said he’s witnessed the wreckage leak the blame game.

Explained that when the deceased

explode into the light, all the crazies

 

dissolve into one pocket of space, backlit

and defiled. He hated us because he knew

we were petty gelatin. That one day we’d be dead too

and the hue of incrimination would be transmitted

 

and final. The funeral director was glad to see us go.

He knew the dead man would be better off.

Jennifer Juneau -- jlsjuneau@sunrise.ch -- lives in Zurich, Switzerland. Her work has appeared in several journals including American Poetry Journal, Cimarron Review, Cincinnati Review, New Zoo Poetry Review, Seattle Review and elsewhere, and has been featured on Verse Daily as poem of the day. She is the recipient of two prizes from the California State Poetry Society. In 2006, her collection, More Than Moon, was chosen as a finalist in the National Poetry Series.

Spring 2009 Poetry:

RAPPERS AND THEIR GAME by Michael Cromwell
EDITOR'S CHOICE: Three poems by Robert Flanagan
OCCUPATION by Elizabeth Pavlov
ONE BLUE SHOE by Barbara De Franceshi
THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR by Jennifer Juneau
CASH CROP CONCRETE HOLLOW by Dave Migman
THE SWIMMERS by Oskar Hansen
MAUDLIN MOMENTS by Judson Hamilton
HORNETS by Christie Isler
BLACK MAGIC BOXES by John Tortora

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