My Grandmother’s Body
When the funeral director comes to
retrieve my grandmother’s body, a nighttime
response to my aunt’s inevitable call,
he wears his funeral-director suit.
He leaves the stretcher out on the back porch.
He ambles the staircase to her bedroom.
He notes the stairs’ ninety-degree turn
without changing pace. She lies beneath her sheet
and blanket in bed. He knows that she is
small and light. He asks if he might
lift her himself to carry her downstairs
and out the door, away. What a relief
to think of her last moment at home, cradled
in the man’s arms, her head in his arm’s crook.