I’d never been to a funeral before

that only needed one pallbearer. After the newly

uninfanted father stepped down

from the podium, he looked inside

his daughter’s casket like she was a doll

in perfect packaging, and she needed

to be unpacked. Instead,

he lidded the box and tried to pick

her up, fumbling with two options:

longways or short. Spreading his arms wide

he attempted longways first, holding her

like a waiter presents hors d’oeuvres at a dinner

party, his suit jacket barely kept together

by threads at his back and one button in front

ready to pop off like a bottle cap with the next

added pressure. He set her back down

and tried the other handles, tucking

her under his armpit like an extra carry-on,

squeezing her against his ribs, slightly bent

to one side centering the new weight. He let her down

and resurveyed the task. He chose to carry her

like luggage. He passed the brief walk

to the hearse leaning her against his self,

and, laying her inside like a cloud, turned in

his fatherhood. The few of us who followed

watched the hearse evanesce

and, collectively, expired