I picture myself on the first tee
as the coffin floats
into the church,
poised with club in hand,
ready to swing
and the organ belches
into life,
drowning out quivering voices;
the driver catapulting
the ball towards the sun
as the Gospel promises
eternal salvation
and I know I can
make the green with
my seven-iron;
glancing at my palm
where I keep the
dead man’s name,
lining up the putt
for an unexpected par,
sobs drifting up
to the rafters
as I chip out of
a bunker
at the second
when a girl with
the voice of
an angel sings
and I land twelve inches
from the hole
stifling a smile
that looks
like a grimace
to show I care
and share their pain
knowing I am
going to have
a good round
as I follow the coffin’s
final journey
outside in the breeze,
perfect weather
for a game of golf,
hands grasping mine
with grateful nods
imagining a hole-in-one
as a voice
coated with loss,
whispers in my ear
what a lovely service.
