Mar/Apr 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 2 PoetryMarch 1, 2017 |

His Funeral

Some of the leaflets displaying his face blew away in the wind. The widow spoke in fruity blurts. A man, grinning, kept looking at the sky for telltalereleases of smoke. Bemused, the daughter acted as if she were viewing everyone's featuresin a Luna Park mirror. The son, shoulders hunched,loosened his tie and squinted. After the chaplain offered handshakes and a few lines from Psalms,everyone trudged across gravel. The widow rolled her leaflet into a tube. The grinning man used his to shield his head as the rain approachedlike the footsteps of a late mourner. At the café, waving her leaflet like a ticket, the daughterlunged for the food. Still standing alone, the sonheld his like a testamur for an exam he couldn't remembertaking or passing. He studied the memorial dates printed above his father's face, did the sober accounting.In a corner his mother dabbed at the crumbsaround her mouth, flaky memorabilia fallingto the floor, the top notes of her perfume flirtingwith a pulse in the

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Scenes from a Novel

By Lucy Dougan

Some of the leaflets displaying his face blew away in the wind. The widow spoke in fruity blurts. A man, grinning, kept looking at the sky for telltalereleases of smoke. […]

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