Trace Estes

MIRTH AS A STAGE OF GRIEF

Finally, it's just the three of us,
shoulders touching, sitting
in the front pew of Mother's church,
deliberating over an urn full of ashes.

We could fill our time comparing scars–
whether psychological or physical–
but since we were all present
when she dispensed them, there's no point.

Mine: a thin line runs from my eyebrow
to behind my left ear. She slices
a sauté pan too close to my head
because of a spot she notices. Grumbling
the entire time, she expertly butterfly-
bandages the gaping wound. When she's sure
the bleeding stops, she pulls out
every dish in the drawers and cabinets
and forces us to clean them again.

John suggests dumping her in the lake
where we scattered Dad, but no one wants
to be that cruel to him. Danielle thinks
that since Mother is such a huge bitch,
we should go to the dog track
and toss her onto the infield.

I tell them I'm thinking about
testing the validity of my new Dyson
vacuum cleaner's claims. We're giggling
so hard, tears have no choice
but to fall. It is the first time
she's been able to make us all laugh.

In reality, neither cares, so long
as it's me. By default of seniority,
I let my two siblings relax.
Don't worry. I'll take care of it.

After they leave, I cane my way to a side door
off the narthex and lock it behind me.
I pinch apart the plastic bag inside the urn,
sluice the ashes contained within
into the commode and follow
with a long stream of urine.

A sigh escapes as three shudders
squeeze out the last of my bladder.
I keep flushing until her last traces vanish.

* * *

AN AGENT OF CHAOS EXPOSES THE LIVE WIRE IN A CHURCH BASEMENT

We open with planting
the pickled little bastard, then step
stage left so Mom can deliver
a hysterical soliloquy
on how unfair God is
to take her undeserving baby
when the world teems with so many
better candidates. Since we're gathered

around one folding table, Dad takes
the opportunity to remind us
of what failures we are
for allowing our marriages to collapse.
None of us care enough to inform him
that a half-century trapped in a loveless marriage
because neither had the balls to be alone
didn't actually scream Success.

We stop doctoring our pops
from a bottle smuggled inside one sister's purse
when a man comes and sits next to me
at the de facto surviving sibling's table.
With the silent telegraph
of raised eyebrows and shakes of heads
we agree he's a stranger
and begin editing our conversations.
At least until my shoulder touches his.

I just have to point out the irony
of little brother's death - smashing
into a MADD billboard.
Snorts of suppressed giggles goad
me on to wonder aloud if the police report
might mention a mysterious soccer-mom minivan
and that the red ribbons possibly imply an affiliation
with the Bloods. Belly laughs feed a shiver –
as if I'm sticking my finger into an outlet –
so I hammer my thoughts through with images
of finding graffiti on his tombstone
and the next PTA meeting
where one mom will surely have
a new teardrop tattoo in the corner of an eye.

We're laughing so hard, the tears pour
and no amount of lemon-pinched glares
of disapproval can make us stop.
The stranger bends to my ear,
"If you look close enough, those stares
are tainted by envy. Envy for this
kind of freedom. A little sick humor
can be infectious, son. And it makes my job easier."
With that, he left.

Trace Estes got into a stealth submarine 3 years ago and has been silently slipping along under the turbulent waters of the poetry publishing and workshopping world ever since. He comes up to periscope depth everyday, and as this sample proves, he sometimes surfaces. Trace continues to write every day but more importantly he reads every thing he can get his hands on.