Saltines at the Viewing

Nine years old. The shoes were too tight—

a blister on my heel. Yellow afternoon light

in the funeral home, carpet cleaner smell,

the organ's single loop. I couldn't tell

what face the casket wanted. The adults knew.

I didn't. Found the bathroom. Locked it. Through

the door, the organ kept going. Hexagonal tile.

Bare bulb. On the sink, a sleeve. A while

I stood there eating saltines. All of them.

Pressed the wrapper flat—a kind of requiem

for nothing—behind the toilet tank.

Cold water on my wrists. The salt. I drank

from the tap and stood and didn't cry.

Came out eventually. Nobody asked why

I'd been gone. I stood where I was told.

Nine years old.

Today I wrote so sorry for your loss

on a card in the break room. The gloss

of those tiles came back. The taste. The dark

behind the tank. The wrapper. That small mark

I left in there—whether it's still there.

The organ looping. My feet on the stair.