Lowered

The plastic bag is thin and clear,

to keep the dust from settling here.

I fold the sleeves of the heavy coat,

a knot of grief still in my throat.

But then I see the priest again,

praying for the souls of men.

His fly was down, a silver tooth

shining with the awkward truth.

My brother bit his inner cheek

until the skin was raw and weak.

We stared at the floor, at the polished wood,

and didn't mourn the way we should.