First Black Suit

The neighbor's boy, all starched and stiff,

a small black suit, a sudden whiff

of old, dry wool, a memory.

That scratchy coat, on top of me.

My grandmother, her hand so tight,

pulled me through that muted light.

Lavender, mothballs, a cloying scent,

where every grown-up sorrow bent.

The casket gleamed, a polished box.

I watched the clock, the little shocks

of silence, then a whispered prayer.

I just stood still, held fast right there.