Funeral

The first time he rides in a limousine is four days after he dies.
His car is spotless—screw-you dignified—reflecting the casualty
he leaves behind.

She wears green to spite him. No one looks at the lines she cut
into her hands. Denial stays unopened in the clutch of his letters.
Tiger lilies press to her side. Never given, flowers are for funerals.

A man stumbles, fiddles with the latch on the limo’s back door.
She moves to the side. Nothing happens. But oh, does she miss
and regret.

—SANDRA RIDLEY

(Originally published summer, 2007.)