Green squares of afternoon
crawl like beetles over the hills.

The wake is through the twig-rush
rising left of silver; I drop Mom

off at the door, park in the back
by an iron whale-mouthed trailer

where the extra chairs are pulled.
Above tightened black ties

old faces float and smile grimly.
Mom braces against the catafalque,

"he doesn't look like himself."
**** gives the speech, carries us all

through the expected meadows.
One cousin is glassy after downing shots

but his brother speaks for both.
Afterward, Mom can't walk well

so I get the sedan and take her home.
Slashes of slick sun wend through

the canopy like blood dripped
into beer - streaming out,

red threads entwining, suspended,
as the whole drink gets darker.