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23 Choosing My Father’s Coffin The scent of mountain laurel fading in late spring Overlooking St. Mary’s River, An orchestra of insects guiding sand, pebble, and notions Of the sacred home again. I think of my mother, How she has always lived inland Close to her own mother’s music, How, if I breathe silently enough, I can almost hear Chords of “Dixie” and “Amazing Grace” Synchronized to damn and release One’s heart to an open field. There, she kneels whispering With eyes drawn to grass and earth. Two, three, or four times a week Her hushed offerings find their way Through red mounded dirt Layered with plastic wreaths That smell like Foster’s Funeral Home. We selected the color, size, and price Of his coffin. Would his navy suit complement The casket’s lighter shade of blue? Would his necktie pick up the red in his folded army flag? The clock down the hall From the undertaker’s office seemed to tick Each second louder than the next, A steady mechanical drop of water Hammering through our chests Like an ancient form of pre-burial torture. ...

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