Catechism or Parting Pantoum
by Cate McGowan
I lose my faith at my father’s funeral.
Pallbearers pace, and dolly wheels whine.
Spades. Clumps from a yawning hole. On my father,
a spray, lilies, Mom’s anthurium arrangement.
Pallbearers pace, and dolly wheels whine—
the creaky rig cradles Dad’s slow coffin.
A spray of lilies, Mom’s anthurium arrangement
jostles. Sad flowers girdle and adorn
the creaky rig. Cradle Dad, slow coffin.
Mom’s rosary slips through her fingers,
jostles sad flowers. Girdled and adorned,
she mouths the Sorrowful Mysteries, dolor.
Mom’s rosary slips. Through her fingers,
whispered grief. Handkerchief. Holy is His Name,
she mouths, sorrowful, mysteries’ dolor,
as she yanks me toward the gaping grave,
whispers, grief, handkerchief holy. Is his name
my father’s, who was mangled, closed-casketed?
As she yanks me toward the gaping grave,
what’s an awkward kid of nine to do?
My father who was. Mangled, (closed-casketed),
supine inside a varnished pine box, its knots pouting.
What’s an awkward kid of nine to do?
I’m stuck here. The descending vessel’s black patterns swirl
supine inside a varnished pine box. It’s not pouting.
My father’s gone; he’s nothing. In there,
I’m stuck. Here, descending, the vessel’s black. Patterns swirl.
A cloud shadows, and Monsignor Moore prays
my father’s gone—He’s nothing in there.
Rites, benisons, and the litanies. All flesh is grass.
A cloud. Shadows. And Monsignor Moore prays
over the void. We lean through Our Fathers,
rites. Benisons and the litanies’ flesh is grass’s
past. Moments. Above, roots, above. The green
over the void we lean through. Our father’s
last ceremony, and I gawk at springtimes
passed. Moments, above roots, above the green
blown dogwood. Blossoms rasp. In a stiff-gust
last ceremony, I gawk. At springtime’s
empty pageants, nature’s the only thing that matters.
Blown dogwood blossoms rasp in a stiff gust.
The gravedigger spits, then grabs a shovel.
Empty pageants—nature’s the only thing that matters,
not their hollow salvations and resurrections.
The gravedigger spits then, grabs a shovel,
spades clumps from a yawning hole onto my father
not there. Hollow salvations and resurrections—
I lose faith at Daddy’s burial.
Cate McGowan (she/her), a fiction writer, essayist, poet, and visual artist from Atlanta, Georgia, is the author of two books—a novel, These Lowly Objects, and a short story collection, True Places Never Are, which won the Moon City Press Fiction Award. McGowan’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including Glimmer Train, North American Review, Stonecoast Review, Chestnut Review, Shenandoah, Citron Review, Crab Orchard Review, Tahoma Literary Review, and Norton’s anthology, Flash Fiction International. She serves as an associate poetry editor for jmww and assistant fiction editor for Pithead Chapel. McGowan recently completed her Ph.D. and will now commence reading every trashy novel she can find.
