portion of the artwork for Rebecca Schumejda's poem

A Funeral for the Living
Rebecca Schumejda

There are no pallbearers, no casket, no eulogy, no burial
just guards, shackles, a cell, the number that replaced his name.
Every belief, like the life taken, gone. Gone forever.

If you know, please tell me how to mourn the living,

how to make sense out of senselessness. I have been
digging holes in the woods behind my house
to bury my grief in. Come over, bring a shovel,
my knuckles are sore. When you get here be patient;

I waver between resentment and forgiveness.

When I revisit my childhood, I remember climbing trees,
how my brother told me not to look down, icy, deep
breaths, a torn red mitten, branches snapping beneath our boots.



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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 50 | Fall/Winter 2017