Funeral in Los Angeles

Cancer took her quickly. Now

cars of her procession

move like dark cells through

traffic of the Los Angeles Freeway,

a daily purgatory.

A silver military jet

becomes a needle of glare 

that tugs a thread of chalky

vapor. The plane cruises

above faraway suede hills

well ahead of its sound.

And the family in its sealed,

air conditioned autos is driven

ahead of understanding.

A lavender dolphin, anchored

like a dirigible above a used-car

lot, smirks as they pass.

Her daughter runs a finger over

the upholstery. She thinks,

"It's just upholstery."

And at the cemetery, too,

everything has become

only what it is: asphalt, grass,

trees, people--the landscape

of a children's book.

Where they bury her,

upright headstones are forbidden.

Marble, granite, and brass must

be inlaid so tractor mowers

may keep grass immaculate.

Beneath a canopy near the dug

grave, the daughter looks toward

those old brown distant hills.

She wonders--as her relatives

whisper quietly and cry--why

the world seems to have been 

completely prepared for

the death of her mother. 

circa 1979/2021 hans ostrom