Cypress tree, honeysuckle, tarp spread over the corner store. Old women with lit ends of cigarillos in their mouths. Men rolling dice in a cup, swigging fire water with no ice. Someone flips a side of meat on a charcoal grill; two cuts to lay on a plate on the casket's glass, for there is eating and drinking in the world of the dead. Someone shakes drops of gin on the ground and claps like a bridegroom signaling to start the dance. This will go on for days, for what is elegy but the muffled sound of marching along the old road that goes down to the sea: no one left to look out of windows, willow fronds quiet until the mourners start singing.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.