the funeral home
a prayer book and
a yard of cheesecloth
to cover the stone
I’d rather keep
the flimsy gauze
for chicken soup
I’d strain spent herbs
gray bits of bone
bleached out carrots
to leave a clear
golden broth
Dad would’ve like that
some chicken soup
like his grandmother made
fluffy matzoh balls
slurpy noodles
I’d set it before him
instead
today
I recall, remember
honor
I veil
that cold tablet
repository of grief
with this flimsy blanket
folded it could be a pillow
unfolded unfurled
it catches a breeze
and whispers like a prayer
as I place it
masking his name
sharply lacerated
freshly etched