Poetry- Andrea Potos

My Uncle and the Undertakers
They try so hard, the work that none
of us would do--the embalming,
casketing, the cossetting;
and the person dressed in his satin bed
still seems to look like some far-fetched hint
of his former self.
Yet in the chapel today, the body of my uncle--
oldest and last son to go--wears the precise
shape and features of his father, my Papou,
gone these forty-plus years.
I stand astonished
at their creation--perhaps artists,
workers of the spirit after all--
they have...


To read the rest of this article Login

or purchase a Digital Subscription