PAM RILEY // Charleston

Charleston

I wore a dress
that day we went
to Charleston
for the funeral-
something stark
in blue and purple.
Too blatant for the occasion
you said-
ladies only wore black,
to let the world
see their feelings
were refined,
like bleak angels.

Your sister
made a martyr of her mouth,
the lipstick on her teeth
and the hat's black veil
reminding me
I still did not belong.
She clung to her husband
and shook hands
with friends,
wondering if the coffin
would still be gleaming
six months in the ground.

I tried to speak
to your father
but he never turned around,
his shoulders hunched
and rounded under
his black serge jacket;
his tears disappearing
like they always do
when someone else is
watching,
eyes fleeting, trying
to feel a pulse within
the ground.

I could feel the rain
coming as she was lowered,
as the mahogany
ruptured the dirt around us-
descending on ropes-
all those pale men
in suits watching,
and the priest made
short work of words
because water makes
it hard to speak
when mouths are blooming
open.

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Pam Riley is a native New Yorker, who still misses the Big Apple. She likes to spend her free time going to the theatre, museums and traveling. She has been writing for years and enjoys working in both poetry and prose. The little quirks and imperfections of life are her inspiration.