The Hard Fought Elegy

Moments after we left my mother’s funeral,
heard by no one, not even the gravediggers

whose job it was to pour the dirt over her,
the coffin started to settle,

crushing clods of dirt beneath it,
shoving a little stone or two

deeper down, until the coffin
was happy in its place.

And over the years more muffled noises
would be heard down there,

the coffin coming apart meticulously slow,
my mother’s bones separating

from each other, gently sliding off
to one side, her beautiful hair

falling from her skull, still looking
for a final resting place,

and I, her oldest son, having to write this,
having chosen the wrong profession.