Marie Howe

After the Funeral

Driving the thruway past the houses of the dead
and two miles west of that exit, the sky plumped with rain,

the girl and I listened to a downloaded book
tell us about another time, more gone than this one.

Does everything seen from a distance look pretty?
The deadly lightening, the southern town

where in 100 or so more pages a man will hang from a tree?
No man yet. The tree unmarked

I don’t want to hear anymore, the girl said,
Something bad is going to happen.

Nearing home the sky turned biblical, pink and bruised purple,
half a rainbow pushing up like a plow handle broken off

while in the west more dark rain gathered so dense it seemed
anvil enough to hurt the car should we drive into it.

We drove into it, then out the other side
and finally up our own gravelly road and into the yard.

The dog bounded to the door.
We carried the bags from the car.