Clip-on Grief

The tie was polyester, a pre-knotted lie

that itched at the sensitive skin of my throat.

I was seven years old, and I didn't cry;

I just sat in the heat in a scratchy wool coat.

The room smelled of bleach and the heavy, sweet rot

of too many carnations in plastic green jars.

I watched a fly land on a polished, dark spot

on the lid, while the sunlight came in through the bars.

My mother reached over, her face a pale blur,

and shoved a damp tissue deep into my palm.

It was crumpled and warm, smelling of her,

a small, wadded weight that didn't bring calm.

I squeezed the paper until it was a ball,

watching the back of my uncle’s cold head.

I didn't feel big, or small, or at all;

I just wanted to take off my shoes and be fed.