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Poet of the Week: Laura Swearingen-Steadwell

Swearingen-Steadwell, Laura
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processional

he lifts my grandmother’s body

a sheaf of reeds
he picked himself, cattails
rustling in the wind

he carries her

as though he meant to make something
useful, to weave a basket,
to give those bones the benefit
of new intention.

this is what they mean
when they say good man: they mean
a love strong enough to smile
as though he could lift her anywhere,
carry her down the aisle

with my father
and the other white-gloved men.

 

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