On the night we dug up your father’s body
(for reasons I can no longer remember)
we took turns with the shovel
as we passed a bottle of Whyte & Mackay
back and forth.
You didn't say anything
until we opened his casket:
looking at his corpse you said,
“He’s smaller than I remembered”
and then walked away,
leaving the scotch and the shovel behind.
The next day,
when the police came to the apartment,
they didn't say anything—
even though we were covered in dirt
and stunk of death.
After they left,
you made breakfast,
and we watched black-and-white movies
until it was time to go to bed.
James Millhaven, "CLOSURE" from new & used. Copyright © 2017 by James Millhaven. Reprinted by permision of the publisher.
Source: new and used (Grey Borders Books, 2017)