Whitefish Review published my poem, Looking After the Dead.
Looking After the Dead
By John Hayes
Saturday morning while weeding the peonies
my father collapsed,
a mud-caked trowel in his hand.
We didn't know
until lunch time
when he didn't come to the table.
When we found his body
Aunt Tillie felt for a pulse,
"He'll be joining your mother now."
Pa wasn't a religious man
but Aunt Tillie wanted her preacher
to say a few words.
"He won't like that," I said.
"Pa didn't believe in God."
"Well, he does now," Aunt Tillie said.
I cleaned and polished his trowel
and after he was laid out
stuck it in his hand.
It was something I could do.
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