Elegy for Bell

By Laurie Roark

They slipped him into a coffin

like you slip a loaf of

white bread back into its clear film bag

with a yellow Fresh! label,

thoughtlessly letting it dangle

toward the earth and spin closed

before tucking the end underneath,

sealing the food by its own weight.

The body presses on the counter.

His body was waiting to die,

fueled on packs of Marlboros

and cans of Natural Light that make

footing and fingers too unsteady to strum a guitar

anymore, voice too shaky for another

Hank Williams, Sr. refrain. But, Lord, have mercy, he would say

till the end, always a good Catholic,

embraced by the flesh and blood in his plastic coffin.

The priest at the funeral could not shake

the scent of embalming fluid mixed with

Benediction incense, and the guests smiled

at the body’s blushed cheeks paired with bolo tie

and boots, freshly polished to enter the soil

of St. Joseph’s Cemetery.

She can’t remember what colors they chose

for the flowers or what hymns they asked the choir

to sing or how many miles they drove

in that procession through pine trees

past the towns of Pelican and Pleasant Hill and Robeline

and all of the Louisiana smallness. She remembers, instead,

the surprising lightness of his six-foot-three

body, light by the cold handle of the casket

she carried down the aisle to the altar.

To be blessed and sprinkled by Holy Water,

this is ending and this is remembering.