Joe Wilkins
A boy wants to break
the world in half and put it
in his pocket. All through the eulogy
I thumbed a cracked mussel shell
pulled the day before from the shallows
beneath the bridge,
the shell’s interior curves so perfect
and slick I could almost feel
the mother-of-pearl—
lavender and rose, cream
at the thin, crumbling edge. My collar
itched. I didn’t like the golden
corduroys I had to wear,
hand-me-downs from an older
cousin, and still my only pants without
mended knees or a patched ass.
The priest needed the cup,
so I held it up. I didn’t know the man
who died. He was my grandfather’s age,
which worried me, but not enough
to slow me down
(wasn’t my first funeral, wouldn’t
be my last). I shucked
my starched vestments faster
than all the other altar boys,
and so was first in line
for a chipped-beef sandwich and pie.