Southern Illinois Funeral
J.T. Ledbetter
When the rain let up and the wind slacked
they finished digging and headed for the barn
where the sweet milk-breath of cows filled the dark.
In the big house women carried hot dishes from
kitchen to table and someone shook the ghost-sheets
of winter off the couches and chairs in the parlor
where Rev. Nobs would have something to say before
the men did the last thing, rain or no rain.
That night it began to sleet and a driving wind blew
all night against the old house where my mother sat
in the kitchen curling her hand around hot tea,
the voices of aunts and cousins echoing through
the rooms as food was eaten and chairs scraped against
the floor as Rev. Nobs cleared his throat and
began his remarks. The men had gone to the barn or
tipped their chairs back against the house on the screened porch,
picking their teeth and adding up what he left her.
I watched from the landing outside my room and tried
to catch meaning from it all while waiting for my
father's heavy steps on the stairs. There must be more
there but the rest of the night, and the time since,
is lost in the rain beating on the windows
looking west to Turley's Woods, and the sound of muffled
voices hiding in corners of rooms locked away,
the white porcelain doorknobs shining in the dark.
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