The First Suit

The lilies were heavy and smelled like a rot

masked by the sugar of water and stems.

I stood in the suit that my mother had bought,

fingering the fabric and chewing the hems.

The metal tab bit where the clip met my throat.

My hand on the casket was small and too clean.

The wood was a mirror, a dark polished boat,

carrying off what a seven-year-old had seen.