The Funeral

Someone read a poem about God's plan

while her daughter lay in the box—she was only six, and man,

I couldn't pray. Couldn't find a thing to say

to a God I don't believe in anyway.

The casket was closed.

The stained glass light came through in colors composed

of every false promise, every decoration,

every soft assurance, every salvation

that doesn't save anyone from anything.

God's love. God's time. God's plan.

I sat in the pew and I ran

through every reason these words meant nothing,

every reason the light meant nothing,

every reason her daughter was still just dead.

The light was beautiful and meaningless.

It was arranged. It was purposeless

and that made it worse somehow,

that someone thought this light right now

could make any of it better.

After, people said they were sorry.

I let them, though nothing could carry

away the cold thing in my chest,

the certainty that death is the test

faith fails every single time.