The Funeral by Donald Hall | Poems Rethabile Likes
The Funeral
by Donald Hall
It is the box from which no jack will spring.
Now close the box, but not until she kisses
The crossed, large hands which she already misses
For their caress, and on his hands the ring.
Now close the box, if we close anything.
She sees the wooden lid, and she dismisses
At least a hundred thoughtful artifices
That would enjoy the tears that they would bring.
The coffin does not matter. It was one
Like many in the row from which she chose it.
Now to be closed in it, he must become
Like all the other dead men, deaf and dumb,
Blank to the small particulars that stun
Her mind all day. Black men, now come and close it.
Now close the box, but not until she kisses
The crossed, large hands which she already misses
For their caress, and on his hands the ring.
Now close the box, if we close anything.
She sees the wooden lid, and she dismisses
At least a hundred thoughtful artifices
That would enjoy the tears that they would bring.
The coffin does not matter. It was one
Like many in the row from which she chose it.
Now to be closed in it, he must become
Like all the other dead men, deaf and dumb,
Blank to the small particulars that stun
Her mind all day. Black men, now come and close it.
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