MAGICIAN

by Loren Stell

Drunk, like their funeral director,
the gravediggers finish shoveling a hole
head-level deep, cherry-canoe wide, just after
the Methodist service ends across town. Ten minutes before mourners
will catch up to the hearse, its burden proves 12 inches too long.
Reeling, the boss chainsaws and drops the coffin’s foot into
the earth’s open mouth, eases down the adjusted casket
a little, edges it all ‘round with plastic grass, winks
—the moment the bereaved family appears—
at his pre-teen daughter. As she recalls,
after Psalms, tears, a silent retreat
of black-shod feet, he flipped
her pigtail, chuckled, threw
back his head, extending
both arms wide, as if
to hug surrounding,
upright witnesses.