My Father as an Accordion and my Mother


At my father’s funeral I played guitar beside his casket
while staring at him there on his back in a merino sweater
and dark jeans I’d bought at GAP on my way to Virginia.

Watching him there he looked empty, an accordion stretched
apart six feet until it snapped and all the air inside of him
was gone and I wanted to spread my arms and hold him 

in each hand, 
slowly pushing him back together
until his body sang to me.

At my mother’s funeral I say nothing. I sit in the front row
lifeless. But inwardly my head spins as I imagine diving into
that hollow pocket of earth as she’s lowered down alone. 

I think about my father below my feet and how it would feel
for all three of our bodies to be together, one last time, 
as the dirt wails down on us. 

Jeremy Morris / March - April  2016 Issue