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William Matthews - Men At My Father’s Funeral
Work rating: Low

The ones his age who shook my hand 
on their way out sent fear along 
my arm like heroin. These weren’t 
men mute about their feelings, 
or what’s a body language for? 


And I, the glib one, who’d stood 
with my back to my father’s body 
and praised the heart that attacked him? 
I’d made my stab at elegy, 
the flesh made word: the very spit 


in my mouth was sour with ruth 
and eloquence. What could be worse? 
Silence, the anthem of my father’s 
new country. And thus this babble, 
like a dial tone, from our bodies.
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