A Thought | Thomas E. Kennedy The Funeral Director’s Wife | Grace Wells Infidelity, Almost | Edward Mc Whinney The Revolutionary | Amy Groshek What Walt Whitman Said | Liz Prato A Discourse on Time | Luke Evans Plum Island | Andrew Coburn On the Contrary Archives | Search   Thought.htmlInfidelity.htmlRevolutionary.htmlWhitman.htmlTime.htmlPlum.htmlContrary.htmlArchives.htmlshapeimage_2_link_0shapeimage_2_link_1shapeimage_2_link_2shapeimage_2_link_3shapeimage_2_link_4shapeimage_2_link_5shapeimage_2_link_6shapeimage_2_link_7shapeimage_2_link_8
The Funeral Director’s Wife | Grace Wells Often I have watched his hands about a corpse, the closing of the mouth like the closing of a tin can gaping and wide; the jagged edge of memory prevents a smoothing over. He will conquer death, make of it a business; dressed in ceremony his chiselled face sets more stone-like with the years. He doesn’t know I sit with them. The talk in whispers is of first kisses, the way a loved one’s lips turned sour in argument. We share trinkets, baby hair kept tied in ribbon, flowers pressed between the leaves of faint-ink letters from sisters gone over the Atlantic at seventeen. There is the telling of waking alone to the dark night and of the shamings, teachers and fathers, and I hold them, hold their passing, hold the dearest of things while in the scrubbed yard he reverses the hearse.  read about the author Contributors.htmlshapeimage_3_link_0
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