Marvie's Day

when we buried Marvie it was hot

jacaranda dripped from the sky

the sunlight spoke of ghosts and horses

and drying fields and flowers

heavy black flies sheltered from the blowing air

while we waited

the ladies wearing bridge clothes exchanging golf scores and sanitised family history

the men hearty with sweating hands and akubras: smart casual, no black

what are you driving and what’s your handicap?

golf, but something else too

like a currawong striding across the lawn having spotted a small lizard

the hired minister flapped towards us

and out-of-work waiters nudged us into the marquee like cattle dogs

three men carried her but one could have tucked her under his arm

laid the little coffin on the luggage straps

chrome gleamed like a speedboat at a show

the preacher told us three times he hadn’t know Marvie

slipped and called her Gladys twice, distracted by the death certificate

he exhorted us to cry

I watched the wind lift the flowers and ribbons on her lid and shiver them

and as he spoke his homily the wind rocked the coffin on its bindings

rocked the coffin like a cradle

there was no earth for miles    a shopping centre cemetery

only green lawn    velvet astroturf

the sky escaping

and Marvie rocking in her box

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