A man with whom I had a one-night stand

does the eulogy. He paces the pulpit

of a church I never entered until now

for a religion I don’t believe in and clears

his throat before quoting Dickinson:

“I am out with Lanterns looking for myself.”

He muses, “She said this before jumping

in my bed, where I gave her chlamydia.”

My grandmother chuckles and slips a flask

of vodka from her purse, pours it into sweet tea

before taking a swig. My mother doesn’t cry

but sneaks beans into the pockets of mourners.

Even in death, I’m a volcano on the verge

of erupting, the pressure of the absence

of a lived life. My friends sit in school desks

in the corner where the organ should be;

they hurl spitballs and flick paper footballs

into my casket. A tiny spider builds a web

from the blue lace with which my first

wedding dress was made, while my ex

stands outside with a weedwacker; he wants

to keep floral arrangements away. We each hold

grief separately from the one beside us,

all stroke the same sallow hand, soon bone.