June Rowe

The ABCs of My Sister’s Burial Instructions

Absurdly, it arrived in an email of all things,

beatifically telling us, her sisters, the details—

casket selected, simple wood,

decaying naturally over time,

eulogies at the service,

funds to ship her remains back to Kalamazoo,

god forbid! Everything’s in order even

how she used all her savings…don’t worry

it’s all paid for, she wrote, then more instructions—

just a simple eulogy at her synagogue,

kaddish said and recite a poem of Ken’s

let him continue to be remembered.

Maybe a simple lunch after the service,

not much fuss, salad, sandwiches, cookies.

Oh, I can see her writing this email, trying to sound

practical, like she’s just sending us a recipe,

quilt she made from second hand scraps

resting across her lap with her old cat

Sheba on her knees. At one point she may sit back

take time to relive each of the seven minutes—

until the space between his breaths grew longer,

very close to the final minutes, then the seconds

when she held his hands as his breathing stopped altogether.

XOXO ends her email message—as if to tell us

you’re all I have my sisters. I’m still suffering. With that . . .

zip, she sends, trusting that we will read between the lines.

Daredevil

Unseen in the twenty-foot-slimy-green-black.
Home to ropey snakes curling uncurling, fanged
ancient snappers lurking among the pickerel grasses,
smart old wide mouth bass skulking under lily pads.

All wait, wait to strike unsuspecting legs, drag under
those who dare swim across the pond— my son, daughter
their fearless children. They’ve all made the voyage,
except me, I’ve waited watched them swim across
and back from the safety of the deck.

Now at 80, it is the year of now or never.
The year I wade in deep deeper, plunge in headfirst,
force my creped arms to slice through the water,
ignore my aching shoulders, inching forward,
erase all thoughts of mythic monsters waiting,
poised, eager to pull me underneath forever.