After the Funeral by Lisa Erin Robertson
To acknowledge that we
were doing well, my mother
and I made plans, specific times
and restaurants, films and
the friends of my parents, who also
worried about her, and we were never
late, never kept each other waiting, and if
I stayed, she made up the guest room
as she had never bothered when he
was living, like a confirmed agenda could mitigate
an absence; and she who never stopped
being beautiful for him bought thick
sweaters after he died, Fisherman’s
Wife sweaters, knotted boiled
wool for waiting in Northern winds
outside the recoil of waves, so why just
weeks before her death did we go
to the shipwreck cemetery on the Point Reyes
Peninsula, where the last
dead man was buried in 1927 and had
nothing to do with us or my father? Why
did we take the dog and pictures
of ourselves on fallen alder trees, laughing
against the wind that blew
a path from us to the sea? Art by Marina Iks
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