UPS Delivery at the Funeral Home
Luke told me to open it—sometimes
plants are shipped like that. I found
delicate windchimes suspended
from a brown dome and a dangling
sail etched with a cardinal and rhyme.
I’d destroyed the box in my reckless
opening. John called me an animal,
but Luke didn’t care and said,
“Just put it on the table by the window.
When they come for the death certificates,
they can get it then.”
The next week was slow. John wandered
munching on popcorn—spilling snowflakes
from his office to my desk, the lobby
couch to the flower room, the lounge
to the garage in the back. He dragged
the vacuum from the dusty closet
grumbling that the place was a mess—
not admitting anything.
That Friday, John took out the trash
and Windexed the glass. He stood
at the table examining the windchimes
and hollered, “What are we doing with these?
Throw them away?” I walked over to say
the family will pick them up. The death certificate
had been delayed, but instead I’m staring
into his blue eyes, and I’m laughing
at his cleaning frenzies, at the idea of those chimes
hanging in front of a house tinkling with the breeze—
its sound scaring the cardinals away—
at the silly things we think will ward off evil,
at the chance music we believe will call
our loved ones back, laughing at death.
~
The Farce Chase
John asks, “Have you seen Luke?”
I think he went that way, I point
to the east chapel, and he says,
“You think? What if a murderer came
in here? You gotta know what’s going on.”
He winks. I giggle as he marches
to the chapel doors like a soldier.
Luke appears at the front entrance
and heads to the arrangement room.
I could’ve said that John was looking
for him, but I don’t. John reenters
whispering that he’s on a hunt—
mimicking Elmer Fudd—
and skips to the west chapel.
That door’s heavy—when it closes
it echoes like a tomb sealing shut.
Luke slaps my desk with a file,
another pre-need for the cabinet.
He meanders back to his office.
I take the file to the garage
where I find John throwing corn
to the turkeys out the open door.
At the sound of his voice,
they strut to the driveway—
they’re well-trained.
John asks if I’ve seen Luke and I lie.
I want to watch these suited men
race by my desk, and hear their exasperated
sighs, and wonder how long they’ll keep
doing this. Why not just text each other?
Perhaps it’s their age—they don’t consider
the cell phones in their pockets—
or perhaps they like the chase that keeps
them busy—little boys playing
hide and seek while their mother
relaxes in a chair acting as a neutral base.
Cat Dixon is the author of What Happens in Nebraska (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2022) and Dispatches from the Unfillable Sinkhole (Alien Buddha Press, 2023) along with two other full-length collections and three chapbooks. Recent poems published in Gyroscope Review, Vagabond City Literary Journal, and Connecticut River Review. She is a poetry editor with The Good Life Review. She works full-time at a funeral home and is an adjunct in the Writer's Workshop at the University of Nebraska, Omaha.
