Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 2
Yvette Neisser Moreno
After a Funeral
In the middle of hide-and-seek,
we found ourselves staring into the closet:
suits, starched shirts, empty shoes.
Though Uncle Lenny was gone,
his loafers were still polished,
closet door ajar, wooden pipe
still lying on the dresser.
Just a moment
face to face with closet darkness,
then we were back in the game
dashing from room to room
to look for hiding places.
Only this morning, pulling my coat
around my shoulders, it came to me—
there was a man who once stood
in those huge, gaping shoes,
whose wrists once filled those hollow cuffs.
Poppy, my cousins used to call him.
So he was somebody’s husband,
somebody’s brother. Somebody.
© Yvette Neisser Moreno