Full of Grace
Before the funeral service,
my uncle tells me he recently
fell into a large flowerpot,
smashing the poor baby flowers.
Hard not to laugh together.
The church seems smaller
than it ever has,
but then so does God.
I still genuflect, say Hail Mary
for Grandma in Heaven—full of grace—
can’t help myself, Catholicism
embedded in my active gestures
like a middle finger at a traffic merge.
The statue of Jesus opens
his palms to the sky.
My mother begins to raise her hands
towards the ceiling as if in prayer
but then actually to her nose,
sneezes, says, “It’s the incense.”
I whisper, “You’re allergic to God.”
Hard for my uncle not to cry when
we leave the church. A grave
waiting, a canvas canopy shielding
the sun. Again we pray, and I guess
it’s time for that, the sky clear
and endless. The children take
the roses from the casket.
Death is new to them, and distant.
My mother reminds me
it was supposed to rain and later
it does, at dusk, as if it had been
waiting for something.
A short burst. We drive past
my grandmother’s house once
more and nearby, teenagers
cluster on a stoop. A girl abruptly leaps
into a handstand and, on her palms,
walks down the street, the bright soles
of her sneakers deflecting the water.
my uncle tells me he recently
fell into a large flowerpot,
smashing the poor baby flowers.
Hard not to laugh together.
The church seems smaller
than it ever has,
but then so does God.
I still genuflect, say Hail Mary
for Grandma in Heaven—full of grace—
can’t help myself, Catholicism
embedded in my active gestures
like a middle finger at a traffic merge.
The statue of Jesus opens
his palms to the sky.
My mother begins to raise her hands
towards the ceiling as if in prayer
but then actually to her nose,
sneezes, says, “It’s the incense.”
I whisper, “You’re allergic to God.”
Hard for my uncle not to cry when
we leave the church. A grave
waiting, a canvas canopy shielding
the sun. Again we pray, and I guess
it’s time for that, the sky clear
and endless. The children take
the roses from the casket.
Death is new to them, and distant.
My mother reminds me
it was supposed to rain and later
it does, at dusk, as if it had been
waiting for something.
A short burst. We drive past
my grandmother’s house once
more and nearby, teenagers
cluster on a stoop. A girl abruptly leaps
into a handstand and, on her palms,
walks down the street, the bright soles
of her sneakers deflecting the water.
Jan / Feb 2024
Tracey Knapp lives in the California Bay Area. Her first collection of poems is Mouth (42 Miles Press, 2015). Recent and forthcoming work appears in Cream City Review, The Pinch, The Shore, New Ohio Review, and elsewhere.
Art: Donna Morello, Collage