The Undertaker Blusters

Morning. The undertaker in my bedroom.
I meet him as I enter. The coffin by the wall
bolt upright. Egyptian-like with bellied head.
An inverted mandolin. He goes to lift it by himself.
It’s small. It’s very small. He struggles.
I help him. We place it on a stand. An incline.
Oh God, I feel, he’s going to exhibit her again
here in the doorway of my bedroom. He swings
the casket open. Today she’s dressed in pink.
The angle is too steep. She crumples.
I rush to pick he up. She gurgles.
I’ve heard of headless chickens. This means nothing.
She twitches. I glare. The undertaker blusters.
Her eyes, I watch them open, focus. She knows me.
Her face is fuller, younger. She shrugs herself to shape
and straightens. I feel me smile. “You’re going
to be alright?” I question. “Yes,” she smiles. I laugh.
“Yes,” she laughs. I place my hands upon her shoulders
laughing. I know something’s not right
before the clock goes.

Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A. and Canada, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.