The Lilies' Burden, Or, A Tightened Knot

Aunt Carol's funeral. Last week. Still

the lilies, their sweet, sick will

to cling, to everything. My coat,

the smell still there. A small, dry throat

I swallowed with. The air was thick.

Uncle Arthur, he kept a nervous flick

of his fingers to his tie, though straight.

That crisp white collar. A silent gate

to something. Grief, or just a show.

He tugged it. Slow. Like he didn't know

what else to do. A slight, small wrinkle

near his chin. A tear? A twinkle

of something else? I looked away.

That cloying scent, it made me sway.

Like syrup on a cut, too much.

I just wanted not to touch.