The Day After the Funeral

Her Husky arises every few minutes,
in order to expose different parts of its mottled coat
to the flickering fire,
the dog turns in a lazy stop-start orbit
of fur and slurry-jawed yawns.

Beside the same dying flames,
a leather-bound Bible rests
on my Grandmothers lap,

an hour or so ago
the old rocking chair creak
fell silent,

now her head of silver hair
slouches to a side,
bifocals searching for escape
from the tip of her wrinkled nose,
the slow purr of her outward breath
makes a comforting sign
of late-evening life.

I should really venture out
to the dark dewy fields,
out to the open night stars,
to gather more wood,

out to the cold midnight breeze
that chimes the patio flutes
and scratches the screen doors itch,

but not before I finish this job I started,

listing the names
of the dead I know, (or once knew)
on old writing paper I found today,
in my Grandfathers study,

a list far too long for a boy my age,
a list whose names now include his.