A Tongue in the Mouth of the Dying

Wooden Box

WOODEN BOX He demands this. Nothing else. No mahogany slick, or roses kissed by lilies. No music or speech. Weeping, limited. We are to file down the aisle, nod head to his dead body, return home to care for things still living. We are not to sob for the child him, the bed- and alphabet-less picker of cotton, potatoes, tomatoes. Follower of crops. We are not to sob for the cactusmanvaquero -lover him. Grandpa who takes his milk from the moon, who knows the time for cookie, the time for wine, no. When he is gone, he will be gone. I can make the box myself, he says. I can make it myself. 41 ...