Poet of the Week: Laura Swearingen-Steadwell
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.