Glads

Grownups would hold me up

so I could see

down in, permit me

to touch the rubbery

faces. Morticians’ powder

left my fingertips dry.

Those faces were never

peaceful – though someone

had always closed the eyes.

Once, I saw a tie’s vivid blue

cinch a neck’s great stillness.

On another body, violets

of a chambray dress stretched

across a woman’s flattened breasts.

And oh, the glads, everywhere,

glads, their coral sweetness so thick

it seemed the little electric organ

pumped it out until the room

could absorb no more,

in urns and vases, beside

the open box, glads at the end

of every velvet-padded pew, the altos’

Shall We Gather at the River exuding

ruffle-edged perfume.

Elaine McCreight