Funeral Haiku 






Distracted, dad spills
step-son’s ash into ex-wife’s
grave . . . missing my palms

Black 'n blue clothes my
ceiling, sealing eyes airtight . . .
no more dreams of Spring







Coarse . . . gray . . . dense . . . gravel
Joey’s ash sift fast . . . faster
so unlike his death

Aloft on loft bed . . .
premature ceiling shuts close
enclosed disclosures







I mix Joey’s ash
into mom's disinterred dirt
returning us both

Loft bed's writhing-hot
crawl-space, dreams me dreams graver
than mom’s box six deep







Bleeding my hands, my
fingers—my brother's remains
remain:  cold gloving

Face-down dreams me mom’s
last breath kissing back, this time
no formaldehyde







AIDS to ash . . . even
mom's headstone won’t admit her
Joey’s thereunder

Curled fetal over
mom's grave, I dreamt tall and proud
to carry her home.



--- Chris Custer